


The Funny Thing About Death (Is That It Happens to Those Around You)

by TheLostPleiad



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Some Humor As Well, hunting canon for sport, mcreid banter for the soul, retelling but with more mcreid, slowburn, the tag used to be "some angst" but now has been updated to "considerably more angst"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23238031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLostPleiad/pseuds/TheLostPleiad
Summary: What would've happened if McCullum had more sway in the events of the epidemic?
Relationships: Geoffrey McCullum/Jonathan Reid
Comments: 110
Kudos: 254





	1. Chapter 1

McCullum was waiting in Swansea’s office chair when he returned. The good doctor startled, not expecting to have company in his office. “You should secure your windows better, Swansea. If I can get in this easily, who knows what those leeches could do.” In truth, McCullum had simply picked the lock on the door. But he had a flair for the dramatic, and it was entertaining to see Swansea’s surprise at his implied method of entry. 

“Geoffrey McCullum,” the leech-lover said with distate, “what can I do for you?” 

“I think I should be asking you that, considering your recent Skal problem.” 

Swansea paled, obviously not expecting the information to have reached him in such a short time. His weak chin wobbled along with his voice as he defended himself, “We did not know the patient was infected, the violence was a shock to us all. Had we known--”

“You would’ve made sure to document it, eh? Take your notes for the rest of your _Brotherhood_?” He spat. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you had a hand in this epidemic, considering how leeches have been spawning like rats since it started.”

Swansea’s voice raised to defend himself. “Now Geoffrey–” The sound of the door opening interrupted him. 

“My apologies Edgar, is this a bad time?” Once glance at the man in the doorway told McCullum all he needed to know. Dead eyes, pale skin, sunken cheeks making high cheekbones even more prominent. Even his stance suggested something inhuman.

“God protect us, you’ve got a leech in the hospital?” 

Swansea looked relieved at the presence, smugly satisfied now that he had a bloodsucker to protect him. “Yes McCullum, _my_ hospital. My mission is to heal, while you go about warring!”

McCullum pointed an accusing finger. “You’ve set the table for a snake, and wonder why there’s venom in your food.”

Swansea rose from his desk. “I’m growing tired of your song. You’re a woodsman, McCullum, not a doctor. Return to your hunt.” He spat at the last word mockingly. 

He jammed his finger into Swansea’s chest for emphasis. “I’m onto you, _doctor_. Is this a hospital, or a blood farm?” He stalked towards the door, stopping to glare at the vampire blocking his exit. “You can’t hide from the Guard.” 

The man glared back with icy eyes. “I don’t intend to.”

“Leave him, Jonathan,” Edgar said from behind, acting as if he was calling off a dog. The fool was going to get himself killed by pretending it was safe to treat this beast as if it were tame. The two continued their silent standoff. 

Seconds dragged by like hours as the battle of wills continued. As usual with _his_ kind, violence brewed just underneath the surface. It was only a matter of time before it erupted.

“This is sacred ground, neutral territory. And I _just_ had the carpet cleaned,” Swansea pleaded. 

The leech, Jonathan, as Swansea called him, backed down first, stepping aside to let him exit. McCullum moved to step through when Jonathan shifted again, suddenly uncomfortably close to his neck. He wondered if he had enough time to pull his stake before the vampire attacked. 

“I assure you that my...appetite has not caused harm to a single person in this hospital.” The words sent a shiver down McCullum’s spine as the two stood nose to nose. Cool grey eyes assessed him, set above a crooked nose. It was odd to see the imperfections on a vampire’s face, remnants of a humanity long forgotten. 

“Then whose blood is bringing the flush to your face?”

He smirked. “Maybe it was one of yours.”

Rage flared as he considered breaking the agreement of neutral territory. If he wasn’t outnumbered and unprepared, he might’ve. McCullum stalked through the doorway. The door clicked shut behind him.

He thought about leaving, then realized he had an opportunity to learn more about the enemy. With all the chaos of the hospital, the leech’s senses should be too overwhelmed to hear his heartbeat at the door. He leaned against the wood, pressing his ear to listen in. 

“Did you actually kill one of the Guard tonight?” A note of alarm was in Swansea’s voice. Good, it would serve the sympathizer right to remember who the real danger was here. McCullum was already preparing to grieve for whichever one of his men would not return from the hunt tonight. 

“Actually no,” he chuckled, “I just wanted to get a rise out of him.” The beast did an excellent job of fabricating human emotions.

Swansea laughed heartily at the vampire’s words. Anger again rose in McCullum’s heart. How dare he act as a friend to one of these beasts?

“Who was that, exacty? I gathered he’s a part of the Guard.” Jonathan asked. 

“Geoffrey McCullum, leader of the Guard of Priwen, and a thorn in my side.”

He could hear the floorboards groan as the vampire paced.

“He knows I’m here, is there a chance that he and his thugs will attack the hospital? Am I putting the patients here in danger with my presence?”

_You put everyone in danger with your presence._

“McCullum is a zealot, with no understanding or interest in the complexities of the world. But the hospital is neutral ground and he abides by his word. Quite honestly, you’re safer here than anywhere else.” 

Jonathan gave an amused huff. “If he wasn’t hellbent on killing me, I could respect a man of his word.”

Swansea’s voice grew soft. “Jonathan, my dear boy, how was the funeral?” 

A defeated sigh. The sound of a chair creaking. 

“My mother was there. She looked so... broken. So much older than I remembered. Besides the priest, it was just her and Avery. No one else was there to mourn my Mary.” 

_His Mary? His wife, maybe? Or a relative?_ Questions churned in his mind.

“Again, Jonathan, I am so sorry for your loss.” 

“How can you say that as if I am not the one responsible?” The anger was palpable in Reid’s voice and McCullum prepared to burst back in to save the sympathetic fool’s ass from its wrath. There was only ever one outcome between an angry vampire and an untrained human. “It’s my fault Mary is dead. Her blood is on my hands.” 

“You said it yourself Jonathan, you didn’t know what you were doing–”

“That’s not an excuse! How could there possibly be any justification, any absolution for what I’ve done?” His voice was raw.

_There’s not, you monster. No mercy for demons._ A small part of him noted, however, that he had never encountered a vampire who even wanted forgiveness. 

A pause.

“Forgive my outburst, Dr. Swansea.” Jonathan’s voice came out smooth, controlled. Geoffrey could almost imagine him rearranging his body language from wounded beast to some clever approximation of a man. “What happened while I was away?”

Swansea’s voice was solemn. “It’s not good, Dr. Reid. It seems Mr. Hampton had been infected by William Bishop, and his transformation… well it was rather violent. We have several patients injured and at least one dead!” _A full name_ , McCullum thought, _now I can gather more information_ . _Dr. Jonathan Reid_. 

“Dead! Who did he kill?” 

“Poor old Harriet, I’m afraid. She may not have been the kindest soul to cross our threshold, but still,” Swansea shuddered, “what an awful way to go. We haven’t found the body yet, but based on the amount of blood in the room, there’s not really any other possible outcome.” 

“I’ll take a look at the room, see if there’s a trail I can follow. She deserves a proper burial, at least. Then, I suppose I should go after him? It’s my fault he was even here.” 

“Jonathan, you really have to stop pinning the blame for everything on yourself.”

“I’ll stop when it stops being true, Edgar.” There was a flat sort of mirth in his voice. 

“Well,” Jonathan said, “I suppose there’s no rest for the wicked. Time I get to work.”

McCullum took that as his cue to go, quickly vaulting over the nearby stair railing to disappear among the hospital crowd. 

“Excuse me, what exactly do you think you’re doing?” A nurse with a pinched, bitter expression hustled after him. “This is a hospital, not a gymnasium.” McCullum recognized her from his files. 

“Nurse Hawkins.”

“How do you–?” She stopped when he flashed the insignia of Priwen. Her mouth formed an “o” as she nodded and tilted her head towards a back room. She was a small time informant of theirs, but recent developments could make her an invaluable resource. He followed her. 

Nearly a quarter of an hour later, McCullum left the hospital, somehow more frustrated than he was after leaving Swansea’s office. Hawkins had no useful information to report, only emphasizing how the victim of the Skal attack was a “hateful old bat” who “got what was coming to her”. At least she had a little more information regarding the leech he encountered.

“What about that doctor I saw earlier, he isn’t mentioned in my profile of Pembroke?” 

“Oh you mean Dr. Reid? Some fancy doctor from the West End that came sweeping in here as if he owned the place,” she sniffed. “I don’t care if he had just returned from the front, he’s solitary to the point of rudeness. Probably believes he’s better than the rest of us. All the doctors worship him, of course, raving about his research.” 

“And his research is?”

“Something to do with blood transfusions, I heard. All I know is, he spends an awful lot of time holed up in his office and not enough doing rounds.”

_A vampire researching blood transfusions? How fitting._

“Why the interest, if I may ask? Is he someone I should be keeping an eye on?” Nurse Hawkins asked eagerly. 

He didn’t want to expose him, yet. He needed to lay a trap before flushing the beast from the brush. And the nurse was sure to tip him off, whether she meant to or not. 

“No,” he said, weighing his words carefully, “I just prefer to know about new players in the hospital. He seems to have an in with Swansea, yes? I may have to follow up with him personally. Until I say otherwise, he is just a civilian and not to be involved.”

“Of course, sir. Fare well, Priwen will prevail!” With the familiar salutation, the nurse returned to her rounds. 

McCullum left. Much to think about. 

——————-

Geoffrey massaged his temples as he read through the reports laid out in front of him. Being the leader of the Guard came with far too much paperwork. He missed being out on the street every night, hunting the devils that threatened this city. 

Finally, a report caught his eye. More specifically, the name at the top of the report did. “Dr. Jonathan Reid”.

He frowned. Something both suspicious and comforting was that Reid had not been lying when he told Swansea that he had not killed any members of the Guard a few nights. All of his men had returned alive and relatively unscathed from their patrols, a blessing and a rarity during this epidemic. 

He picked up the dossier. Leafing through the paper trail, he started to get a picture of who Reid was before he died. That wasn’t helpful to the current state of affairs ( _monsters aren’t people_ , he sternly reminded himself), yet he couldn’t help but wonder…

Dr. Jonathan Reid. Born in the West End in December of 1882. His father was a banker, his mother an artist of some renown. Educated at Cambridge, where he continued his medical studies. In the years before the war, he seemed to be a rising star in the medical field, giving lectures both in the UK and in the States on new methods of blood transfusion and analysis of samples. 

_So at what point did the man become a monster?_

He reached the last page in the thick, but mostly useless folder. An obituary for one Mary Esther Reid, found murdered in Southwark two weeks ago.

“Now that’s what I wanted to know,” murmured McCullum. Newly risen vampires were always the most dangerous, there were no lines they would not cross to get what they craved. A dark look crossed his face at the resurfacing of old wounds. 

So the leech was truly new. _Was it appropriate to mourn the man he was?_

The final lines detailed her relations. Preceded by her late husband and child, survived by her mother and brother, the famous Dr. Jonathan Reid, who had yet to return from the front. 

He quirked an eyebrow. So Reid hadn’t revealed himself to his family. 

It seemed like everything he learned about the man just unearthed more questions. Perhaps it was time to do his own reconnaissance.

He was intrigued by the beast, more than he’d like to admit. Their standoff in Swansea’s office had left his pulse pounding faster than it had in awhile. There was the promise of a long hunt, a rivalry of epic proportions. 

_Let the hunt begin._

—————

McCullum was getting impatient. 

This was the third night in a row he had spent watching the hospital, and so far, nothing. He understood that the beasts were intelligent, able to blend in almost seamlessly with society, but when was Reid going to slip up?

_Maybe it would be better if I could get inside his lab. Hawkins did say that he spent more time in there than he did performing his rounds. But no — too much risk with not enough reward._

And, as much as it chafed, he was bound by his word. The hospital was neutral ground.

_He had to break soon. If he wasn’t preying on the patients, he had to leave the protection of the hospital at some point._

McCullum sensed Reid’s exit before he saw the shadow flying from a balcony. The man took off without a backward glance, long purposeful strides carrying him down to the canals. _Finally._ McCullum hustled after, careful to keep his distance.

\-----------

Jonathan had spent the past few nights doing as much as he could around the hospital as it recovered from the attack. 

He was restless, he had to admit. The hunger gnawing at him grew by the hour. A hospital was quite possibly the worst place for him to be. The scent of blood from the operating theater was driving him mad. It was malevolent, travelling farther than should be possible just to tease his senses. The moans of the sick and dying, the stench of contagion, it all grated against him with the sharpness of a knife. He had whiled away the hours in his laboratory, experimenting on the Skal blood samples he had collected on his past outings to keep his hands busy and his mind from drifting. Trying to find a common thread, trying to find anything that made logical sense in this world of myth made real. None of this should be happening, it shouldn’t exist. _He_ shouldn’t exist.

He grit his teeth. He needed to get out of here. 

He supposed it would be a good idea to attempt to track down Sean Hampton again. His past few searches had turned up nothing, and he feared how many bodies may have piled up as he failed to track down the killer; it only added to the blood on his hands. 

People were dying no matter where he went. If he left the hospital, people in his care died. If he didn’t leave the hospital, people died from Skal attacks, vampires, the epidemic, and whatever other evils haunted London’s streets. There was no winning, so what was the point? What reason was he given these abilities, this curse, if he could not perform some good to atone for his past sins. _I’m sorry Mary, I’m trying_. 

He made up his mind. He would return to the docks and continue his search. The Pembroke had stabilized enough to survive a few hours without him. Finding Sean was the priority now. He stepped out on the balcony, sparing a cursory glance to make sure no one was below him, before leaping to the ground in a blur of shadow. It was still strange to him, the feeling of weightlessness as he _became_ shadow. He was a creature of blood and darkness now, he supposed he should get used to it. Perhaps there was no “getting used to” his condition. He thought back to Lady Ashbury’s words at the foot of his sister’s grave. 

_She was right, of course. I must accept what has happened if I am ever to move forward._ He had his penance laid out before him, and that was protecting London, in whatever way he could. 

\----- 

London’s streets had never been so silent. He supposed that’s what made it so easy to realize that he was being followed. That Guardsman that he had seen in Swansea’s office -- McCullum -- had been shadowing him for the past hour as he made his way to the docks. If he was being honest, Jonathan could have easily lost him by now. It would have been easy enough to disappear into the shadows of a back street and laugh at the hunter’s frustration from his lost quarry.

_Or you could kill him. Why hide?_ A darker part of him whispered. _He’s alone, his blood is yours for the taking. It would be over before he could draw his weapon._ It rattled on, conjuring excuses and justifications. _Who would be more justified in killing him than you? He hunts those like you, he has the blood of legions of Ekons on his hands._

_They are_ **_not_ ** _my kind._ He fought back viciously. _I did not want this._

_But you have it, so why fight your nature?_

Jonathan remembered the moment when his teeth -- fangs -- met Mary’s neck. The feeling of her skin splitting beneath him, the gush of nectar on his tongue. _Wouldn’t it be nice to feel that again?_

Reid clenched his eyes shut, forcing himself to focus on the horror that came after, the realization of what he’d done. Her wide eyes searching his face, her hand on his cheek. The silent question in her eyes: what had happened to her brother? Her last thoughts still echoed in his head. He was still running from her ghost. 

A stone settled in his stomach. Clearly, he could not be trusted. He would let McCullum follow him as a silent judge. Someone to end him if he lost control.

_McCullum wouldn’t hesitate. He could stop me, or at least he could try._

Jonathan knew from the moment he saw him in Swansea’s office. McCullum wasn’t afraid of him, even though he knew what he was. His pulse had been steady, he had glared at Reid without flinching. If not for the utter confidence in his stance, the Guardsman’s attempt at intimidation would’ve been laughable. He stood half a head shorter than Reid. Despite having the frame of a prize boxer, Reid knew McCullum could not best him in a physical fight. 

But something in his stare dared him to try. 

Cobblestones turned to salt-crusted wood beneath his feet. Even the docks were a ghost of their former activity. No matter the hour of night, there was always a whirl of activity: sailors calling from incoming boats, women on street corners, merchants hawking their wares. Now, the few people left scurried between pools of lamplight, rushing to get back to the safety of their homes. 

So many had been taken by the epidemic, even more taken by the desperation it bred. 

He quickened his pace on the way to the Turquoise Turtle. It’s funny the way things come full circle. That second night after his death – his rebirth – that’s where the hunt for his maker had led him. Now, anyone willing to spare him a word had pointed back to the bartender in his hunt for Sean. “If anyone knows what’s going on in the docks,” they said, “it’s Tom.”

So back to the Turquoise Turtle it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having writer's block, so posting this older thing I never finished (but have more of) in the hopes that it will motivate me to overcome that. Sidenote, how do you join a server on discord? I finally made an account and wanna chat vampyr with people. How's quarantine treating y'all?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCullum is grumpy (as usual), and Jonathan makes a surprising proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbeta'd, so please let me know if you see any glaring errors!

McCullum lurked outside, searching for an opening from the upstairs balcony. Finally, spotting an opening, he rolled in an unlocked window, hustling to the stairwell to listen in on the conversation. There weren’t as many people in the bar to provide cover as he would’ve liked, but it did make eavesdropping easier on his end. He concentrated, catching the tail end of the leech’s speech. 

“–Reid. I don’t think I introduced myself properly the last time I was here.”

The barkeep chuckled. “No, but I remember you well anyway. Not every day someone like you comes in looking run ragged and returns in fancy togs.” 

Reid’s low baritone responded, amused. “I was a bit out of sorts the last time I came here, I’m afraid. I’m much better now. I was actually wondering if you’d be able to help me again, however? I’m looking for Sean Hampton, he was a patient of mine at the Pembroke, but he left before being discharged. I suspect he returned to his ‘flock’, but I don’t know where that entails.” 

_The Sad Saint was the Mr. Hampton who turned Skal?_

A suspicious pause lay heavy in the air. McCullum could imagine the bartender’s eyebrows drawn in distrust. However kind the well-dressed man in front of him may appear, he wasn’t an east-ender . 

Reid noticed the hesitation as well, and rushed to add. “I should clarify that he owes no money, Pembroke does not charge. But I am concerned, considering I did not think he was healthy enough to be released.”

The man relaxed fractionally. “Well in that case,—”

McCullum weighed his options as the leech continued to play the good doctor in the tavern. He could leave right now and beat Reid to the night shelter. That would let him secure the other’s target before he was anywhere close, give him an edge in whatever followed. Or he could stay and make sure the leech didn’t make any “detours”. He lost his advantage if he took that route, but taking his eyes off a known vampire would give him too much time to kill innocents. If he had a patrol with him, the situation would be different. He cursed his tendency to hunt alone.

He assessed the man’s pallor. Hollowed cheeks, sunken eyes. He must be starving. 

That sealed his decision. You don’t leave vampires unsupervised. ~~You don’t leave them alive~~. 

He continued padding through the street after the Ekon left the pub. 

_Leech doesn't even know to make sure he isn’t being followed_ , McCullum thought, satisfied _. The new ones are always fools._

Just as the thought crossed his mind, Reid disappeared. McCullum’s pulse quickened. Had he caught on? He drew his sword, ready for an ambush.

He stalked forward, silent despite knowing that stealth didn’t help when your opponent could see the blood in your veins through walls. 

“Do you follow every vampire in the city around, or did I do something to receive your personal attention?” 

McCullum whipped around, sighting his target and loosing a bolt in one breath. He hated when leeches came from behind, striking at a man’s turned back like cowards. _At least this one had the decency to announce his presence_ , he thought dryly. 

Reid dodged his bolt easily, smoky shadows trailing in his wake. “Easy, hunter,” he called, hands raised in a show of nonaggression; McCullum snorted, as if he’d let his guard down around a leech. He’d hear him out though, out of curiosity if nothing else. 

“I know you’ve been trailing me all night, so I’m sure by now you’ve pieced together what I’m trying to do.” 

McCullum stayed silent, waiting for Reid to continue. 

“I know you know about Sean. But please, allow me to piece together what truly happened before you storm in to enact your bloody justice.” 

“You want me to intentionally delay killing a leech – one with a confirmed body count, no less, so you can satisfy your curiosity? That’s a bold request, especially considering it’s my job to kill your kind.”

“Then why haven’t you attempted to kill me yet? Why just,” long, pale fingers waved vaguely against the dark background, “follow me all night.” 

McCullum narrowed his eyes. “Like I said before, I have a nose for machinations. Priwen’s goal is to exterminate _all_ leeches. Whatever you’re involved in, it’s bigger than you, but you’re the key.” He smirked before continuing. “When I come for you, doctor, and I will, you won’t get this much notice.”

Irritation flickered in those pale eyes. “That being said, I can’t let you kill Sean before I uncover the truth. Something isn’t adding up here.” 

“You’re going to have to kill me from doing my duty.”

Despite his bravado, his heart leapt into his throat as he tightened his grip on his sword-hilt. He was alone and unprepared for a fight. Reid might have been a newborn, but McCullum’s instincts had kept him alive, and right now they were warning him not to underestimate the leech. 

“No I don’t.” Mischief lit his face. “I just have to get there first.” 

That was the only warning McCullum got before the leech disappeared, the only hint of his passage were the shadows left behind. He cursed as he realized Reid was truly gone. There was a reason Priwen depended on confrontations at controlled points like bridges, and that reason was their prey’s ability to damned shadow jump away from conflict. By the time he reached the night shelter, both Reid and Hampton would be long gone. Grinding his teeth, he re-sheathed his sword and started on the trek back to headquarters. Patrols around the shelter and Pembroke would be doubled, and if either Hampton or Reid dared to show their faces on the streets, or if there was a hint of trouble in either place, they’d be met with a bullet to the head. 

**\----**

McCullum paced the cemetery, an irritating -- and increasingly familiar -- subject on his mind. He hadn’t seen Reid since that night at the docks, although the man still popped up in reports from patrols throughout the city. What concerned him was the fact that he could not trace a body count to the leech. 

Sure, the monster could easily hide his kills among the chaos of the epidemic. But even the Guards that attacked him were left alive, and the only dead accounted for in the hospital were victims of the flu. Could the leech really be as altruistic as he claimed? His lips twitched in dissatisfaction as he remembered their last encounter. 

A wail of pure, soul wrenching agony rent the air. It rang through the silence of the cemetery, ensuring all who heard its foul cry that the source was in a pain deeper than they could imagine. 

Naturally, McCullum ran towards it, certain that someone needed help. His footsteps echoed on the cobblestone as he entered the small courtyard from which the sound came, hidden among winding paths and mausoleums. 

A figure knelt, shoulders slumped and shrouded in semidarkness. Instinct alone caused McCullum to slow his steps and ready his crossbow; his mind catching up milliseconds later as he recognized the back of the man he’d been hunting for several nights now.

He took a moment to appreciate the sight before him. It was disarming to see a monster looking so vulnerable. He looked defeated, like his spirit had been ground into the earth. If he was human, McCullum might’ve moved to comfort him. He was cradling something in his arms tenderly, almost lovingly. 

Wait.

Not some _thing_ , some _one_.

Cold, clear anger cut through the sentimentality. The bastard had just killed someone to quench his thirst. McCullum loaded a bolt into his crossbow. Before his finger pulled the trigger, Reid spoke.

“I have killed my sister for a second time tonight. You’ll forgive me if I am not disposed towards another battle.”

 _Damn, he knew I was here the whole time._ “So does that mean you’ll let me kill you, then?” He retorted quickly.

Then, the implications of his words set in.

He cautiously circled around, crossbow still trained on the vampire in front of him. McCullum, for the first time, saw the face of the prone form cradled in Reid’s arms. The resemblance was clear.

“She was looking for me, you know,” the vampire continued, seemingly uncaring of the weapon aimed at him. “I had been meant to return weeks ago. I had written letters. Promising to be home soon. I had given her a date! She would have met me at the docks that night to welcome me, if not for the curfew.” 

“She was worried that something had happened to me. I suppose she wasn’t wrong,” he chuckled. The sound was hollow. 

He tilted his head towards the sky, giving McCullum a clear view of his face for the first time that night. He was shocked to find the vampire was crying, twin tracks of tears making their way down his face. He didn’t even know vampires could cry.

“I was so _close_ to being home. I had survived the war, I was walking down the Thames, breathing in the scent of a London I had not seen in years. Then, darkness. It was so disjointed. A voice whispering, something being forced down my throat. Then there was nothing but pain and absolute darkness.” He paused, collecting himself.

“I woke up buried in a mass grave. Do you know what it’s like to have the flesh of the dead pressing down on you as you try to remember who you are and why you’re there?” Geoffrey remembers the weight of his mother’s body after the attack. He knows. “I crawled my way out from the corpses. Disoriented and afraid. Everything seemed wrong, but I couldn’t even remember who I was, how was I to know what right felt like? It’s like the whole world was covered in layers of shadows, no color anywhere. And then–” his voice broke. “And then I saw this...light. It was this beautiful, pulsing red. I ran towards it, and it embraced me. I _needed_ it closer.” 

Disgust warred with pity as Reid spoke. “So, you killed her.” Geoffrey interrupted.

“When I came to, I was cradling Mary in my arms as her last thoughts filtered through my head. ‘Jonathan, my sweet brother,’ she was asking, ‘what have you done?’” I held her as her mind shattered from the grief of my betrayal and her life slipped away. She had been searching the most dangerous parts of London, only to be killed by her own brother.”

Another mirthless smile. “Then your Guard came, and I was hunted like an animal in my own home. I had returned from facing death daily in France to become death in my homeland.”

“I’m not interested in your sob story.” 

“Too bad, I need to share it– share it with someone who can hold me to account– and you’re here.”

_What the fuck._

“So imagine my shock when I discovered Mary wasn’t dead. That I had turned her. She went mad because of me; all the people she killed was her revenge on me. When she realised she couldn’t kill me, she begged me to end her, to let her rest. It was a mercy, yet it still broke my heart to kill her again. I told her I’d find a cure for this… condition, that was my final vow to her.”

Reid stared him down. “I won’t pretend I’m not a monster, McCullum. I have hurt those closest to me, those who trusted me unconditionally. But I only have my work to live for, and I have sworn to end this epidemic, whatever the personal cost. So, I’d like to offer you a deal.”

“I don’t make deals with hellspawn,” Geoffrey spat. 

Reid continued regardless. “You let me pass freely through the city while I search for a cure to the vampire epidemic, without fear of the hunters. You are free to keep tabs on my progress if you think that I am trying to propagate it further or whatever diabolical scheme you think I’m up to,” he waved his hand as if to emphasize the ridiculousness of that thought. “And, in return, when the epidemic is over… I’ll let you kill me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news: I've got writer's block over Sparring Partners still  
> Good news: I've still got some brain cells left for this fic


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quality, apparently, takes effort. Which sounds like bullshit to me but ok. Thanks to @illgetmyspade for beta-reading  
> *disclaimer that I am not calling this work high quality by any means, but it was actually edited for once, which is a step up😅
> 
> Second disclaimer: I have no medical knowledge outside of basic first aid and It Shows. If you care about medical accuracy, feel free to yell at me in the comments, because my answer for any inaccuracy will be either “vampire magic” or “sacrificed for the writer’s convenience”.

_Well, that was unexpected_. McCullum parted his lips, ready to ask what kind of game Reid was playing. Before he could speak, a pained moan interrupted him.

Reid snapped to attention. “Vicar Larrabee!” He gently set down his sister’s body, taking a moment to softly brush the strands of hair that had fallen into her face, before rushing to the crumpled figure who leaned against a nearby headstone. How had McCullum not noticed him earlier? He was the sort of person he should’ve been protecting, an innocent caught in the crossfire of supernatural violence.

Reid babbled on, “I pulled Mary off of him, but didn’t expect it to do any good. I assumed he was gone.”

He joined Reid by the priest’s body. The leech had two fingers tucked underneath the man’s jaw. “His pulse is weak, but it’s still there. We need to stop the bleeding. Needle and thread, now.” He ordered, holding out a hand without looking away from his patient. 

McCullum just stared at him. It would be a fair assessment to say that he was short circuiting at the moment, watching this man -- this creature -- go from broken monster to purposeful machine in the span of a few seconds. And now this man was ordering him around like he was supposed to play nurse instead of killing him. 

Reid finally turned to look at him, irritation present on his face. “Do you want this man to die? Get me a needle and thread, now. I need to suture the wound.”

“I...don’t have any.”

The doctor made a choked sound of frustration. “You don’t have any? Unbelievable,” he fumed, “You’re a paramilitary organization that faces vampires nightly and you don’t carry _medical supplies_ with you?” McCullum could only shrug, too taken aback by the strangeness of the situation to try and defend himself. 

Reid paused for a moment, eyes flickering rapidly over the wounded man.

“Give me your shirt,” he demanded. 

“What?!” 

“I need to bandage the wound so we can get him to the Pembroke before he bleeds out. Hand it over!” Reid gestured rapidly, months on the front line of treatment under fire and improvising all their equipment dictating his motions.

“Why can’t you give him yours?”

“Because we need to take him to the hospital, and I’d rather not show up to my place of work shirtless if there’s another option.”

McCullum’s fingers itched for his sword. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to save the vicar himself. He wasn’t so short sighted as to decapitate the poor man’s only hope. _Goddamnit._

He cursed, and angrily shrugged off his overcoat. More force than necessary may have been applied to undoing the buttons of his shirt before he shoved it into the doctor’s waiting hand. 

Seconds ticked by with tension strung taught in the air as Reid applied pressure on the wound.  
“We need to get him to the Pembroke, quickly. He needs a transfusion as soon as possible.”

“We?” 

A pained look crossed the doctor’s face. “I...don’t trust myself to get him back alone. There's too much blood.” Reluctantly, he added, “I need your help.” 

_What could he possibly be playing at?_

McCullum was perplexed, to say the least. This had to be some ploy to gain his trust, to get the Guard off his back. But when he searched Reid’s face, he saw no sign of insincerity.

Against all his training, McCullum nodded. 

Reid’s eyes widened, surprised he had agreed. He cleared his throat. “Alright then, we need to hurry.” With that, he easily hoisted the priest into his arms. Jonathan looked back at the prone form of his sister, lying in the grass among the cracked headstones. _I’m sorry Mary,_ _but this man needs help. I couldn’t save you, but I_ can _save him._

**——**

Little was said as they made their way through quiet graveyard paths and abandoned streets. Confusion emanated from McCullum as he tried to fit Jonathan’s actions into his worldview of what vampires _should_ do. Reid wondered how many vampires he had talked to without attacking them first. 

The smell of Vicar Larrabee’s blood leaking beneath the stained cloth was driving him mad. It was taking every ounce of willpower he had to not finish the job Mary started. The only thing keeping him from succumbing was the shadow of the man behind him. Like on the docks, McCullum was anchoring him to humanity. He wondered what the hunter would think of a vampire viewing him as salvation.

The silence was broken as soon as they entered the hospital. The instant they stepped on the grounds, Jonathan barked. “I’ve got a patient with severe blood loss. Nurse Branagan, prep equipment for a transfusion.” Thus an avalanche of activity set off. Even Dr. Swansea came down from his high castle to investigate Reid’s shout. His face drained white, approaching the same pallor as Jonathan’s at the sight of his friend carrying a bloodied body, Priwen’s top hunter shadowing him.

The doctors hustled down to the surgical theatre, McCullum following close behind until the doors of the theatre slammed shut in his face. Reid set the priest on the operating table before turning to Nurse Branagan, knowing what he had to do. He locked eyes with her, pushing down the bile-bitter _wrongness_ of his actions. “I need you to bring six units of type B blood, then you will leave and ensure no one else comes down here.” She nodded, eyes glassy. “Of course, Dr. Reid.” Mesmerisation left a sour taste on the back of his tongue; it was wrong to pull the strings of another’s will like a puppeteer. He knew, however, he couldn’t afford for a nurse to come down here. He had slipped in the dispensary with Nurse Crane, what felt like years ago, and although she never brought it up, he felt the weight of her suspicion with every subsequent visit. A sharp-eyed nurse could destroy what little stability was left in his life. 

Swansea had already set to work disinfecting the equipment for transfusion. Reid joined him, desperately trying to distract himself from the ready-made meal bleeding out several feet away. A red haze teased the edges of his vision as he carefully thread the needle, mentally steeling himself for the sutures. Closing the wound was of utmost importance.

Jonathan took a deep breath, pushing in air though he no longer needed it. The act was calming, distancing him from the urgency of the moment and the deep hunger within. He leaned over the vicar, certain he was ready, and opened his eyes. 

A curtain the color of arterial spray immediately clouded his vision, shadows itching at the corners. Empty breaths failed to fill his lungs. He was blind, he was drowning, he was choking on poison-perfume. A whine escaped his throat, he realized in disgust. 

Edgar eyed him worriedly. “Jonathan, you don’t have to do this. I can take over.” 

His distress was obvious, but stubbornness made him dig in his heels. _Or was it possessiveness?_

Vicar Larrabee was _his_ ~~prey~~ patient, not Edgar’s. This was his specialty, his domain. 

“No!” Reid snarled, fangs flashing, “I’m a _surgeon_ , this is my _job_.” Who was he besides his work? 

Swansea backed down, raising his hands calmingly. “Alright, alright, Jonathan. What can I do to help?”

“Get McCullum, he’s just behind the door anyway.” Jonathan’s attention was fully focused on the priest’s neck. _Needle in, needle out._

“What, why him?” 

Reid gritted his teeth. “He’s my insurance.” _Needle in, needle out._

Swansea stared in shock. “You’ve gone mad.”

“Just do it,” he ordered. The needle was caught on mangled skin. Tugging would undo all his work and was sure to widen the bloodflow. But he couldn’t tell how to pull the needle free with the smell sending him blind. 

Footsteps clacked on tiles. His sight may be failing but Jonathan knew all the same that the hunter’s face was grim and set.

“What do you need, leech?” He bit out. 

Reid was stretched too thin to fight McCullum on his choice of words. “I need you...to help me focus.” Piecing together each word was a struggle as the ravening beast inside begged for release. 

“How?”

Jonathan’s grin was sharp and humourless. “Just do what you do best, McCullum. Give me something to worry about that’s more distracting than blood.”

Cool steel met the back of his scalp, bringing everything to clarity. Reid gave a soft sigh of relief as the tide of red receded from his sight. Hot breath met the back of his neck. “Heal him, or I’ll blow your brains all over his body.” A shiver ran down his spine. 

Closing his eyes, Jonathan breathed slowly through his mouth, trying -- and failing -- to filter out the heady scent from the man’s lifeblood seeping out from beneath his hands. The gun helped, as far as motivation went. Reid painstakingly worked the needle free, lips curled up in a silent snarl. The sutures continued without incident, though the temptation never lessened. He stared in grim satisfaction; it may not have been his neatest work, but it would hold. 

“McCullum,” he said carefully, “I need to start the transfusion now. I’d rather appreciate it if you could remove your gun from my head. The worst is over.” 

“You’ll forgive me for being reluctant to believe you, _doctor_.” Despite the bravado in his words, McCullum holstered his gun. 

Reid began the transfusion with practiced ease, allowing muscle memory to take over while his awareness stretched to track the hunter at his back. 

It was odd how he could see the way the man’s blood vessels narrowed, evidence of his tension, his readiness for a fight despite Reid’s assurances. _Vascoconstriction_ , he thought, _it didn’t look like that in medical textbooks._ He knew many doctors who would kill for this sort of insight into the human body. _That is, if the insight didn’t also come with the urge to devour your patient_.

The vicar was stable. Assuming his body did not reject the blood, he would live. The first unit of the transfusion fed steadily through the intravenous tube. Not too much could be given to him at once, or they would risk his body going into shock. But Jonathan had operated on worse-off patients on the battlefield, with considerably fewer resources and in significantly more dangerous conditions. It was arrogant, perhaps, to be so sure of success, but the eminent Dr. Reid had earned his reputation.

Despite the relative success of the operation, Jonathan couldn’t help but feel drained as he slid down against the wall, burying bloody fingers in his hair. McCullum was still watching him with suspicion, piercing eyes narrowed. He was fed up with the odd looks from the hunter, the edges of his civility strained from the long night and the stress of the operation. The reprieve of Larrabee stabilizing had allowed the memories of Mary to flood his mind. He was not ready to process that, so he turned the full force of his attention to the man in front of him. “What, McCullum? I’ve had enough of being stared at like a circus attraction.”

“I just don’t get you, leech.”

“I have a name, you know.” 

“You turn down easy meals, you walk around acting like some benevolent saint --”

“I’m no saint.” Reid’s voice was nearly a growl.

“--giving away free medicine. Working in a hospital as if you aren’t a threat to every being within its walls. Hell, you just turned your back to a hunter and asked him to put a gun to your head.”

“You wouldn’t have killed me, not if it meant a civilian dying,” he said absently. 

McCullum knelt down, stretching his hand out to firmly grasp the other’s chin. Reid resisted the urge to bare his teeth at the sudden contact. _His neck was so close, he just needed to lunge upwards -- no!_ He tried to shake his mind free of those thoughts, matching the intensity of McCullum’s gaze. He could see how tired the other man was, no matter how he tried to hide it with his bluster. The epidemic was taking its toll on Priwen’s leader, the dark bags under McCullum’s eyes matching his own. Stormy blue eyes seemed to burn into his soul, as if he could force Jonathan to reveal his secrets with his eyes alone. McCullum already knew the worst about him though -- the death of his sister, his own monstrosity, what other horrors did he expect to uncover? The hunter’s face scanned his own for… whatever he was searching for: deception, malice, hunger. He just stared at him with that long, steady gaze. Finally, he made his judgement. “I don’t trust you, Reid. But until I figure out what your game is, I’ll play along. You have a deal.”

Jonathan groaned, trying to hide his relief. “I told you, McCullum, no games. I just want to protect London, same as you.”

Geoffrey snorted. 

“McCullum?” He said tentatively, “Could you help me with one last thing?”

“What?”

“Hand me that last bottle for the transfusions. I saved an extra for myself.”

“That sounds more like a leech.”

“Well it’s either the bottle or you.”

McCullum drew his stake at the threat. “I dare you to try.”

Reid rolled his eyes.”I’m joking. But I have had, to put it lightly, a very trying night. So I am frankly ravenous.”

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes, then grabbed the final unit of blood of the table and tossed it to the doctor. 

“I’d prefer if you refrained from watching me eat.”

“What, is it against your gentlemanly sensibilities, leech?”

“Would you stop calling me that? It’s irritating. But yes, it feels...invasive to be watched like that.”

McCullum watched anyway as he uncorked the bottle and emptied it of its contents. The anticoagulants made it taste bloody awful, and it was cold, nothing like the ecstasy of a warming, beating heart — no, he could not go down that path. Blood was blood, and that would suffice. The thought brought little comfort as drained the glass and resisted the craving for more.

McCullum was still staring at him, with that cool, assessing light in his eye. Reid leaned his head back against the wall, allowing the cool stone to ground him in the present. “You are free to go now, McCullum. I certainly won’t keep you.”

He was so tired. Tired of fighting everything: the epidemic, his sister, hunters, even his own new nature. He didn’t want to die, not really, but there was a certain relief he felt at the thought of the release he’d get at the end of their deal. He’d finally rejoin Mary, and everyone else he’d lost, wherever that may be, even if it was just blissful nothingness. For now, the sun was rising, it was time to sleep. But McCullum was still here, still watching him. 

Finally, the hunter shook his head, “I’ll figure you out, Jonathan Reid.”

Jonathan grunted as he rose, though mortal stiffness was no longer an issue, exhaustion pressed deep into his bones. “By all means, Mr. McCullum, be my guest.” Ringing for the duty nurse, he left the suspicious hunter in the lobby. 

Geoffrey left the hospital more confused than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be going on hiatus till mid May! I’m not sure if it counts as a hiatus when my posting schedule was pretty erratic to begin with, but at least this time it’s planned


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoffrey is sad and drunk, and Jonathan continues to stick his nose in everyone's business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back babey! Updates will still be sporadic bc I'm the Worst(TM), but they are happening! The majority of stuff is plotted out and that's exciting >:)
> 
> Thank you to illgetmyspade for beta reading. As always, feel free to roast me (or, you know, just politely comment) if you see any typos/things that don't make sense

It had been a few nights since Geoffrey had held a gun to the back of Reid’s head in that operating theatre, and equally as long since he had seen the man. It’s not that he didn’t know what the doctor was doing; his patrols continued with reports of seeing him careening around London. “Observe, don’t engage” was the directive issued in regards to Reid. McCullum’s inner circle were concerned until he explained the deal struck. He didn’t expect Reid to follow through, of course. No matter how earnest they seemed, you could never take a leech at their word. But until then, Reid did not pose an immediate threat to his men, and he could lead them to the bigger prize. Patience was key in dealing with immortal enemies.

At least, that is how he justified it when he returned to Priwen and his senses. Everything from the cemetery onwards was painted with a haze of irreality, and for all his rationalizations McCullum was unable to summon the usual hostility he felt towards vampires in that operating theatre, even with a gun to his target’s head.

McCullum downed another shot of whiskey, rolling it over his tongue and letting it burn the back of his throat. He had lost count of what number he was at, but it didn’t really matter. 

Memories pushed at the back of his mind, but the whiskey smoothed their sharp edges. 

He was celebrating, he was mourning, but most importantly, he was drinking. 

The anniversary of when it all went to shit. 

It wasn’t that he was ungrateful; what he went through gave him purpose, made him a strong hunter. But tonight, all he could remember was the way his mother twitched in her dying spasms and that last gasping rattle of her breath, his brother’s slumped form on the floor, poisoned blood staining his lips, and the bone-deep knowledge that he would be next.

Someone settled in the stool next to him. 

_Bastard, there are empty seats as far as the eye can see. Why’s he interrupting my night?_

“Ah, McCullum,” they greeted, “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

Unfortunately, he recognized that voice. 

“Of course, I get one night off per year, and the trouble comes and finds me,” he groaned. 

The bartender perked up at the sight of the man next to Geoffrey. 

“Hey, Dr. Reid. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Don’t think you have what he wants in stock.” McCullum muttered. Reid shot him an irritated glance. _Damn vampire hearing_. 

“Actually Tom, I just came here to give you this.” He slid a crate of gin across the bar. “You lied to me, Tom. You sent me to do your dirty work, that warehouse wasn’t empty.” Reid’s words were empty of any real anger. 

Tom gave an apologetic grimace. “I’m sorry for the deception. It’s just, I prefer to avoid the law, or really any manner of thugs in uniform. I thought maybe those Guard of Priwen folk might give you less trouble, being a doctor an’ all.”

Geoffrey bristled at the insult, but kept his mouth shut. _The liquor is good, and you came here to get_ away _from Priwen business for a night_ , he reminded himself.

“Well, next time you can bloody well go yourself. It seems like that militia may have broken into your stores, but there’s still enough in there to keep the whole district afloat for several centuries.”

“You’re not accounting for Dyson.”

Reid laughed, “True enough.” 

“Thank you, doctor. Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink? It’s on the house.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll take a bit of that gin I brought you.”

Reid settled more deeply in his chair as Tom disappeared to put his stock in the back. 

Geoffrey glared at his smug face. “I know as well as you do that you won’t be able to drink that. What’re you playing at?” 

Reid faked innocence. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can’t a man enjoy a drink and a chat?”

“I think we have different definitions of drinking.” 

Reid rolled his eyes. _Such a human gesture_. 

McCullum took a moment to admire Reid in the warm light of the pub. In this setting, his skin did not hold the pallor of death, it was merely the cool alabaster of a doctor working too many night shifts. He knew he drank too much, mind wandering to topics he’d never dare to think of when sober. He couldn’t help but appreciate the doctor’s high cheekbones, his broken nose that suggested a few brawls in his past. Piercing grey eyes shot through with hints of blue, and those lips...

He was exactly the kind of man that would have McCullum weak in the knees. Charming, with a hint of roguishness. 

If he wasn’t a goddamned leech, that was. He had to remember what hid behind those soft lips were fangs made to rip and tear. The man was gone, leaving only a beast with his face. The thought made Geoffrey sad, and he made to tell Reid just that. Tom returning from the stockroom curbed his tongue, however. No matter his level of intoxication, the instinct to protect civilians from the darker edges of this world was ingrained deep into his soul. 

He elected to jab his pointer finger into Reid’s chest. Unfortunately, his motor skills refused to comply, and instead the digit connected with the unyielding bicep hidden beneath the doctor’s thick coat. _Damn_. He cleared his throat, not wanting his voice to come out thin and cracked in front of a leech. “So what brings a respectable doctor like yourself to the docks at this hour?” 

Reid raised a dark eyebrow, the motion serving to make him look unfairly handsome. Hearing the challenge hidden beneath those words, he responded, “I was just making a delivery for Tom. He helped me out of a tight spot a few weeks’ back, and I’m returning the favor.”

Tom added “Aye, and now he’s summat of a regular” as he slide a glass towards the doctor.

Geoffrey quirked a questioning brow; both knew that Tom did not serve the kind of drink that would satisfy him. 

Reid gave him a patient smile, clearly divining his thoughts. _Was he doing some kind of vampire mind-reading?_

“Tom keeps me informed on who in the area could use a helping hand. It makes my rounds more efficient, and for that I’m grateful. I don’t drink on the job, McCullum.” The subtext dripped heavy from the doctor’s lips, which were still quirked up in that infuriatingly calm smile. 

“And this… tight spot you mentioned?”

“Oh yeah,” Tom laughed, “You should’ve seen him that first night we met. He looked like he had just crawled out of the grave when he stumbled in here. I’m pretty Sabrina had a tight grip on that knife in her pocket the whole time he was in the pub.” 

McCullum leaned back to study Reid, who had subtly flinched at Tom’s comment. 

“It surprised the hell out of us when he came back a few nights later in fancy clothes, all-collected and gentleman-like.” 

“I told you, Tom, I’m much more myself than when I first met you.” Reid’s smile was significantly more forced. 

“You never did tell me, why were you all bloodied up that night?”

“A mugging,” Reid lied smoothly. “As it turns out, not everyone likes a doctor poking around and asking questions.”

The bartender nodded sagely. “I told you, doctor, the docks are not a safe place for a man like you. You’ve got to watch your back.”

“Don’t worry, Tom, I’ve learned my lesson.” He patted the revolver at his hip. “This got me through France, and I’ll be damned if it can’t handle a few London thugs.” 

_You’re damned anyway._

The two made small talk for a while longer, with Tom detailing the various ailments and woes that afflicted the people in the area and Reid inquiring for more details. In his current state of intoxication, McCullum almost couldn’t bring himself to be concerned about the thought of the leech around the sick and vulnerable of the community.

Almost. 

Eventually, Tom nodded and drifted off to fulfill other duties. Reid, naturally, took that as an opportunity to pester McCullum. “I’m rather surprised to see you in this state,” he remarked, “don’t you know the streets are dangerous at night?” He wasn’t sure if it was amusement or concern that colored Reid’s voice, and he didn’t know which would bother him more. Scratch that, yes he did. A leech laughing at him, he could handle with the sharp edge of his sword or a crossbow bolt to the face. One that was worried for him? He had no idea what that meant, and it made him uneasy. 

“I can hold my liquor.” He grunted, and signaled for another round, which Sabrina granted hesitantly. Geoffrey turned again to look closer at the doctor. Concern lay heavy on his brow, Reid’s searching gaze piercing right through him. McCullum curled his lip. “Why don’t you get lost? I’m here to _avoid_ Priwen business, so you can take your leechy face and shove off,” he spat. 

Reid tried not to take offense. McCullum was obviously hurting, a wound far deeper than he’d let on, and was only lashing out because his presence irritated that wound. He may save himself a lot of trouble by acquiescing and leaving McCullum to his sorrows, but despite his best interests, the hunter intrigued him, and his oath compelled him to treat any hurting person to the best of his abilities. Even if, in this case, the injury lay far beneath the skin. “I’m here as a doctor, McCullum. So please, just tell me what’s wrong.”

Geoffrey swilled his drink. “It’s an anniversary,” he snarked. 

A cool hand wrapped around his wrist, urging him to stop. “I’m serious, McCullum, what’s bothering you?”

“It’s none of your business, is what it is,” he snarled. He wrenched his hand away, consequently spilling his drink over the counter and himself. He scowled deeper when he saw that Reid avoided all but a few stray drops. “Great, now I need another one.” He waved down Tom. 

Tom cautiously made his way over to the pair. Years of experience tending bar in one of the most crime-ridden areas of London had honed his ability to sense when a man he was serving was dangerous, and no one set off those warning signals stronger than the growling Irishman in front of him. Except for maybe -- his eyes flicked to Reid -- the doctor next to him. Something lay beneath the doctor’s skin, something predatory. He thanked his lucky stars, the same way he did the first time the man entered, bloodstained and battered, that the power seemed without malice. _All the same,_ Tom thought, _Dr. Reid is not someone I’d want to see angry._

McCullum stared expectantly, glass in hand. But Tom knew it was time to cut him off. He shook his head. “I think you’ve had enough, sir.”

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes, the gesture menacing even through his drunken haze. 

Reid sighed. “Come on, McCullum, let’s get you home. I can handle this from here, thank you Tom.” He turned to address the last part to the barkeep, dismissing him with a slight nod. Relieved, Tom left the pair to their inexplicable tension. He had seen people treat Reid with ire before — Giselle Paxton was in here the other day spitting curses; nosy doctors and their “supercilious shite” were featured in her usual stream of venom about anything that crossed her path. But McCullum’s animosity seemed more of a principle, a performance he gave by rote rather than a personal vendetta. Tom wondered what the reason was as he hustled off to the stockroom. 

“I’ll be damned before I tell a leech where Priwen headquarters are! Let me go, I’ll be fine.” The way he was swaying undermined his argument. 

“Say that any louder, would you?” Reid eyed the hunter dubiously. “I can’t leave you to wander the streets like this in good conscience. I could take you back to Pembroke, I suppose; you could rest in my office until the day comes.”

“You want me to sleep in your _lair?_ ” He balked. 

“For God’s sake, McCullum, it’s an office, not a _lair_.” His irritation broke through.

“I’m not sleeping in a leech lair.” McCullum insisted. 

Reid’s face twisted. “You truly are the most frustrating man I’ve ever met. Where do you expect to sleep, then?”

“I told you, I can get back to Priwen on my own just fine.” 

“And I’ve told _you_ that it’s too dangerous to walk the streets in your condition!” He glared at McCullum, not with the malice of a vampire out for blood, but instead with the irritation of a doctor challenged by a particularly belligerent patient. McCullum opened his mouth to protest, then promptly shut it in the face of Dr. Jonathan Reid’s ire. “You can hardly stand,” he hissed, “what do you expect to happen if you come across an Ekon, or even a Skal?” 

McCullum had come here to get beautifully, wonderfully plastered, which had been accomplished, and distract himself from bad memories. The mixture of Reid and his temper was covering that second task very efficiently. He felt the heat rise in his face along with his anger, and surged from his stool to give Reid a piece of his mind. His legs, evidently, had other ideas, and only Reid’s arms stopped him from falling to the floor. 

“I still don’t need your help.” He said truculently. Reid ignored the lie as he maneuvered McCullum back onto the stool. 

“Maybe not, but you’re getting it all the same.” Jonathan worried the inside of his cheek as he pondered, still not entirely used to avoiding the needle sharp fangs that sat in his mouth. After a few moments, his face lit up. “Of course!” He turned to McCullum. “You can stay here for the night. That way you aren’t at my mercy” — cynical amusement rang heavy in the words— “nor are you compromising the integrity of Priwen’s headquarters.” 

Geoffrey scowled, but relented.

Reid called out to Tom when he re-emerged from the back. “Do you have any rooms available? Mr. McCullum here needs to rest, doctor’s orders. I can cover the charges.”

“I can pay for my own damn room,” he snarled. 

Tom eyed the hunter skeptically, then turned back to Reid and told him the rate. McCullum reached into his pockets and slammed the money on the bartop, glaring daggers all the while. Reid simply raised his hands in surrender, resisting the urge to laugh as Tom passed the hunter a key. 

“Alright, McCullum, up you go.” He ducked his head underneath Geoffrey’s arm, offering support while the man hissed protests that he could manage the stairs by himself. 

Tom shook his head at the retreating figures. They certainly were a strange pair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for TENTATIVE TENDERNESS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, crawling out of my grave and spitting out the dirt: what's up y'all
> 
> Uhh, I moved and then started working 50 ish hours a week, so I've been a bit busy. Sorry 'bout that. My next update might take a while too, for similar reasons

Reid wrapped his arms around McCullum to steady him as they crested the stairs. Geoffrey’s body was warm next to him, liquor-flushed and stumbling. “You’re not as cold as I thought you’d be,” he mumbled. While he was glad they weren’t fighting, Jonathan didn’t know how to react when Geoffrey pressed his body against his, the face of the shorter man suddenly buried in his shoulder. 

“Well, the bar is rather warm,” he said levelly. 

Geoffrey snorted, the sound muffled by Reid’s thick coat. “You know what I mean.” 

“I do. Let’s get you washed up.” He said, neatly sidestepping the jab and gently lowering McCullum onto the waiting bed. 

“I can take care of myself.” He said, swatting at Jonathan’s steadying hands. “Why are you worrying, anyway? Don’t like dirt on your meals?” 

“It’s good to see that your tongue is still sharp, even if your motor functions are lacking.”

“I could still take you in a fight”

Jonathan repressed a snort. “I’m sure you could, hunter.”

Geoffrey snarled, hackles raising as he stood. “You think I can’t? I could have destroyed you many times by now, you’re on thin fucki—”

Jonathan tried not to smile, tried to remember that the man before him was a deadly hunter dedicated to eliminating his kind. But it was hard when McCullum was tilting his face up to yell at him, accent growing so thick it was nearly unintelligible and looking for all the world like an angry terrier.

“I know, McCullum.” He raised his hands, trying to come off as appeasing rather than patronizing. “And I appreciate that you’ve stayed your hand. You have much more experience hunting vampires than I have being one.”

McCullum slowed, the wind taken out of the sails of his ire with Reid’s admission. He slumped back on the bed with the loss of momentum.

“It’s an anniversary.” Geoffrey said. 

_So you’ve mentioned_ , Jonathan was tempted to say. But a conversation that was just this side of civil was an immense step with the hunter, and so he stilled his tongue. He was rewarded with McCullum’s continued confession.

“ _Exactly_ twenty years ago, today, my entire family was destroyed by vampires.” There was a crisp emphasis with the way McCullum said ‘exactly’, as if he was rolling the word over his tongue and testing its bitterness. 

Jonathan didn’t know what to say. He knew the man’s hatred of vampires ran deep, but he had never seen Geoffrey so... _human_ , so vulnerable. He had always imagined the hunter as the paradigm of vampire hunters, the model warrior with no existence outside of his battle. He had never considered what set him on this path. 

“My father returned to our home in Dublin one night. He had been gone for months — was a sailor, you see. My mother went to welcome him home, and he tore out her throat in front of me, right after he crossed the threshold of the house. It was calculated, not some blind, desperate thirst.” He swallowed a bit before continuing. 

“My brother was next. He didn’t kill him—though he might as well have. He turned him instead, I watched him as his body shut down on our kitchen floor. And then he turned to me, and you could barely see the original brown of his eyes. They were red as blood, no mercy in there. And he just stared, and tilted his head, and told me to sit by my mother. I can still hear his voice echoing in my head some nights. Didn’t realize until years down the road that it was mesmerisation. I fucking— I hate the mind tricks more’n anything.” Geoffrey tilted his head back, staring at the wooden boards above him and seeing another ceiling in its stead. “I think he was debating whether I was worth turning.” His eyes were dry, all the tears having been spent years ago. He didn’t seem inclined to speak again. 

Jonathan reached out, then withdrew his hand. After all of that, he doubted McCullum would want to be comforted by the same sort of creature that caused him so much pain. “Let’s get you washed up,” he sighed. He stepped out to the hall, where —blessedly— Sabrina had left a basin of water and a rag. He’d have to thank her later. He hauled the basin back in, finding the motion much easier than it was once upon a time. McCullum lay on his back, barely twitching at Reid’s entrance. 

“Now I’m not expecting you to undress fully, but at least let’s remove your coat and wash what we can.” McCullum grumbled, but sat back up, swaying all the while, and began to shrug off his coat, which had clearly seen better days. Reid folded the coat and left it on a nearby chair. He paused, then took off his own coat and deposited it nearby. He kneeled in front of McCullum. Dipping the rag in the cool water, Jonathan moved to gently cup his face. 

“I can wash myself,” Geoffrey grumbled, the protests lacking any of their previous vigor. 

“I know,” he replied softly. 

Despite the few surgeries he had taken part in since his return and the skin-to-skin contact of caring for his patients, this was the first time Dr. Jonathan Reid felt the warmth of human contact wash over him since that fateful transformation. Warm breath ghosted over his cheeks as he framed McCullum’s face with water, skilled hands lingering over each stroke of the rag. He no longer needed to breathe, but he still felt that familiar knot of tension in his chest that came with holding one’s breath for too long, so he indulged in the relief of breathing out, feeling his shoulders unknot from their previously unacknowledged rigidity. His cool exhale whispered along McCullum’s exposed neck, for once not hidden behind its ever-present kerchief. 

Reid’s eyes flickered up to meet McCullum’s as the man stiffened. “Is everything alright?” He asked softly, not wanting to disrupt the spell that had fallen over them. 

“It’s nothing,” McCullum responded, his eyes studiously pointed at the wall behind Jonathan. 

There were many things about this life that Jonathan had yet to adjust to, one of which was the way he could see the traceries of blood rushing up to McCullum’s cheeks, despite his stoic face. He considered their positions, and was suddenly relieved he couldn’t blush himself. 

Droplets of water ran rivulets down McCullum’s face, the sheen highlighting the hollows of his eyes, purple-dark bags underneath from chasing monsters night after night. The back of Jonathan’s hand brushed across his stubble as he followed the curve from the bridge of his nose to cheekbone to strong jawline with the cool rag. This close to the hunter, he couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. He could just smell McCullum’s usual scent beneath the biting tang of alcohol, it was the smell of woodsmoke and gun oil and the faint hint of aftershave. 

Jonathan didn’t realize how close he had gotten, until he looked up and McCullum’s face was _right there_. Geoffrey’s expression echoed his own, dazed and uncertain. They were nose to nose, and Jonathan was drawn in deeper, and deeper, trapped in the gaze of someone equally paralyzed, both standing before the gaping maw of an inexpressible question. 

Then he pulled back. 

Ducking his head in shame, Jonathan shook his head to clear his head of whatever trance had clouded his judgement. His heart, despite its sluggish pace, felt like it was pounding out of his chest. _He barely tolerates me_ , he reminded himself, thinking of the look of sheer loathing McCullum had pinned him with upon their first meeting. The hunter allowed him to exist by virtue of their bargain, of Jonathan’s eventual death at his hands. _Even if he was_ — he cut off that thought where it lay — he did not dare to hope. _Friendship alone was a distant dream._

He swallowed the knot of hurt in his throat, and kept washing. Soon enough, Geoffrey’s face was washed and dried. Jonathan resisted the urge to trace the paths that the water droplets once took across McCullum’s jaw with his thumb, wishing the feel the prickle of rough stubble again for reasons he couldn’t — or wouldn’t — fully articulate. 

“Why are you doing this?” The words were soft, lacking any of McCullum’s usual venom as the man laid back down. Jonathan tucked the too-thin blanket over his form, wondering silently if he should grab Geoffrey’s coat or if the ambient heat of the bar below would be enough to ward off the early December chill. 

“Doing what?” Reid questioned. 

“This,” he gestured. “Helping me. You could’ve left me to wallow. I told you to do so. You didn’t have to worry about my safety, or insist I stay, and you _certainly_ didn’t have to tuck me in at the end of the night. ‘S not a part of our deal. So, why? Make me understand.”

Reid’s jaw worked as he tried to come up with a suitable answer. Somehow, he didn’t think that a simple _“It’s my job,”_ would suffice, and it would not have been the whole truth regardless. “You’re a good man,” he settled on saying, “And you’re doing important work. Despite your dislike of me, I don’t want to see you get hurt.” 

McCullum was quiet for a long while. Just when Jonathan was convinced he had drifted off, he spoke again. “To be honest, I think he was saving me for when Ian woke up. I was always the lesser son, my mother’s child. Da — I don’t think he loved any of us, don’t think he was capable of it — but Ian was the one that occasionally made him proud.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. 

“Don’t be, he was a bastard before he got turned into a vampire. Carl, one-time leader of Priwen, rescued me, killed my father in front of me. And here I am now.” Geoffrey shrugged.

Jonathan, on account of his profession, was used to people hiding the truth by omission. Usually it was patients obscuring the embarrassing cause of an injury, or a soldier evading the fact that he had disobeyed orders. Regardless of the _why,_ his sharp mind had been trained to take note of what people didn’t say to him, in addition to what they did. In this case, he observed that Geoffrey didn’t speak on the fate of his brother, or what had happened to the man who had rescued him (although, given McCullum’s line of work, he could take a guess). He was halfway tempted to ask, but curbed his curiosity. Geoffrey had shared enough pain for one night. 

The man in question gave a gusty exhale before adjusting his position on the bed. “So, what about you?”

“Well, you already know my story, hunter,” he said with a tight smile. 

“Not really. No, I want to know what you were like before,” he waved his hand to indicate Jonathan’s body. “I’ve read some of your papers, but–”

“You’ve read my research?” 

“Nicked ‘em from Swansea’s office to see what he was shitting bricks about. Can’t say I understood all the technical shite, but I got the gist. It’s interesting stuff, what I read at least.” 

Jonathan nodded, impressed and flattered. “So, what is it you want to know, exactly?” He asked cautiously.

“I want to know about what kind of _person_ you were, before the... vampirism.” Geoffrey’s face twisted like he had sucked on a lemon with the last word. There was another question underlying his interrogation, and Jonathan picked up on it. _How much have you changed?_

And that— well— that was difficult to quantify.

“That’s a very broad question.” Partly teasing, partly evasion. Jonathan didn’t know how to answer the unspoken. How much _had_ he changed? He had not had a moment to himself, a moment to fall apart and recollect the pieces, then evaluate the damage left in his wake. 

McCullum scowled, barriers ready to reconstruct at a moment’s notice, until Reid raised an appeasing hand and apologized. He sat down on top of the covers, perched precariously until Geoffrey indicated that he could make himself comfortable. 

“I mean family, friends... a lover?” McCullum ventured.

Jonathan tilted his head. “I was rather dedicated to my work,” he said thoughtfully, “Mary and my mother were often trying to set me up on dates, but, well, the women they introduced me to never seemed to spark any sort of connection. When my father left, I threw myself headlong into research to distance myself from all that anger. He never said a word. Just here one day, gone the next. Disappeared without a trace. And no,” he said, forestalling Geoffrey’s question, “He wasn’t killed, he left of his own free will, as far as my family could gather. Bought a ticket across the channel and hasn’t been seen since. I’m still furious, when I think about it too closely.” He finished quietly. “I had wondered whether I might find him, whenever I was on leave in France. He could have been the next town over, or halfway across the world. I’ll never know.” 

It was Geoffrey’s turn to not know what to say, so he put a hand over Reid’s and squeezed it lightly in silent consolation. 

“And then the war happened, did you serve, by any chance?” The thought crossed his mind, and fell out of his mouth before he could think better of it. “I know we’re supposed to talk about me, but Priwen seems so militaristically-inclined, I had to wonder.”

Geoffrey shook his head. “Quite a good number of my men are veterans. Came back from the war, and, for their own reasons, needed to keep fighting.” He gave a grim smile. “Officially, I died the same night the rest of my family did. Priwen let me gather a few things, then burned the house to the ground, to cover the truth of vampires from the public. You can’t be drafted if you don’t exist. Besides, I’ve been busy leading my own war, here. ” 

Reid gave a solemn nod, choosing not to acknowledge the blatant truth that stood between them. 

“So, the war happened,” Geoffrey prompted. 

Jonathan worried the inside of his lip with his teeth, conscious of the sharp fangs that could rip the skin if he applied any more pressure. He shrugged. “I don’t know how to describe it, exactly. How do you sum up three years of life? It was war, _dulce et decorum est_. There wasn’t the same righteous anger that’s attached to your crusade, it was just a matter of trying to survive to the next day. I advanced the field of emergency blood transfusions, but at what cost? I saved lives, but many others slipped through my hands.” The words were spilling out of Jonathan’s mouth before he could think them through. “It may be strange for you to think about, McCullum, but I had taken more lives as a human in the war than I have as an Ekon. Whether in defense of my patients or not, the blood on my hands is not fresh.” Barbed words dug out of old wounds, sharper than he had intended for the rare moment of calm between the two men.

McCullum, however, took it in stride. He nodded, not wanting to cut off the flow of built up reflections and regrets. He had never met a leech that seemed so human. The label of “leech” did not fit him the way it did others. _Although_ , he noted absently, _he had never given one the chance to prove him wrong before._ If he was more sober, he would angrily remind himself that _leeches lie_ . They manipulate, they lead you in with the promise that they would never even _think_ of hurting a human being, then turn around and rip out your throat with glee. 

But right now, he let himself relax, pulled underneath the tides of the warm hazy glow of alcohol and the rumble of Reid’s voice.

“There were bright spots, of course. The letters from my sister, bringing stories of her son and the neighborhood gossip that I’d never thought I’d miss. And there was, well– you asked about a lover– I’m not sure if it was love or just fear of not living to see the next day that pushed us together, but I had fallen for someone in France.”

“Yes?” There was an odd sort of tension in McCullum’s voice. 

“His name was Daniel.” The admission fell out of Jonathan’s mouth with a quiet gravity, the kind with which a stone breaks the surface of a lake. He took a deep, shuddering breath before continuing. “I figured if you already hate me for being an abomination, what’s one more sin to the list?” Reid offered the man on the bed a crooked smile. 

“I wouldn’t, you know, hate you for that.” Geoffrey blurted. “Leading Priwen does not leave room for romance, but…” He trailed off. 

Reid tilted his head, catlike eyes tracing McCullum’s face. Eventually, he understood the hunter was struggling to finish his thought, and continued. “Daniel died in September of 1916. I only learned months after it happened, when my letters were returned with information of his fate.” His eyes lost focus for a moment, then his face tightened to its habitual mask, the upper-class British reaction to showing an embarrassing amount of emotion at one time. 

Geoffrey’s easy breathing filled the silence between them. When he wasn’t thinking about it, Jonathan didn’t breathe. When he noticed, it made him feel that divide between himself and humanity even more sharply. “Do you wonder,” Jonathan asked, trying to moderate the wistfulness in his speech, “what things could have been like if I had never died on the docks of the Thames? If I had remained normal, _mortal_?” His voice cracked a little over the last word, “I think we could have got on well, if you didn’t hate me for this half-life that was forced upon me.”

A sleep muddled voice broke the settling silence. “I don’t hate you.” Without Reid’s enhanced senses, he probably would’ve missed it. “I tried to, but _damn,_ you make it too hard. With your saving people and your sadness and, and your...nose.”

“My nose?” He mused. But McCullum was too far gone to answer, fading into the kind of peaceful dreamless slumber that came with enough alcohol. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments fuel me and please point out any glaring errors!


	6. Chapter 6

Jonathan sat for a long while, and simply stared at the hunter. McCullum’s sleep-softened face eased the perpetual suspicious draw of his brow and smoothed out the stresses of leading a war against the night that were ground into his muscles in stiff tension. Jonathan sat, and he watched, eyes half-lidded, forgetting the human reflex of blinking. The dawn was far off yet, and he still had rounds to perform, but for now he simply savored the moment of peace. He was not, he’d insist, desperate for McCullum’s approval. However, the solidification of their tentative truce throughout the night, and the kindling of hope for actual goodwill, did spark a sharper happiness in his heart than he had felt since waking to this new cursed existence. 

Finally, he reluctantly rose, knowing his duties called him elsewhere. He reached out, slender fingers carding feather-light through the hunter’s mussed hair, then swept from the balcony in a wave of shadows.

Jonathan completed his rounds around the docks in much lighter spirits than he began, taking the time to stop for tea with Enid Gillingham, who seemed to pay no mind to the fact that his cup was empty.

He returned to the Pembroke with nearly an hour till sunrise, feeling thankful for the falling winter and its lingering darkness. “Good evening Doctor Tippets, Nurse Branagan.” He acknowledged the pair with a slight incline of his head. 

The elderly doctor greeted him with creaking enthusiasm. Jonathan carefully assessed him as they spoke, judging the hollows beneath his eyes and the shakiness of his movements, then dipped into his vampiric sight for further inspection. A large part of him, doctor informed by monster, urged him to grab the man, _force_ him to listen, to rest. But Corcoran was right, they needed all the manpower they could acquire. 

The gnawing sense of wrongness was only slightly soothed by providing the doctor with medicine for his exhaustion. 

He entered the hospital proper, meeting with patients and providing small comforts until the rising sun called him to sleep.

\-----------

Naturally, the peace of the previous night couldn’t last. Jonathan woke, as he always did, with the last rays of light slipping beneath a smoggy London skyline. He woke to ailing bodies with loud beating hearts gathered on the floors beneath him and a hunger pressed into the marrow of his being. 

He rose from his bed with the rippling grace of a creature that could not grow stiff or sore. He dressed, buttoning his coat with the ease of routine, then opened his door to find a missive from the administrator, requesting his presence as soon as possible. _What sort of intrigue has Edgar involved me in now?_ His lips quirked in grim amusement as he made his way to the gold plated door.

“Ah, Jonathan! Wonderful, wonderful.” 

The doctor’s effusive personality was a nice break from the harsh streets of London and an Irish hunter’s growled threats, but somehow Jonathan would prefer to be handling McCullum’s abrasiveness rather than Swansea’s ingratiating enthusiasm at the moment. He smiled faintly at the memory of the troubled lines of the hunter’s visage smoothed in sleep, and the mere fact that McCullum trusted him enough to fall asleep in his presence. Inebriated or not, he doubted McCullum would have made himself as vulnerable in front of any other Ekon. He blinked, returning to Edgar’s present rambling. 

“Now, the reason I had asked you to stop by is so that I could pass on an invitation for you, from Lady Ashbury, to visit her at her manor in the West End tonight.” He began ostentatiously, then added with a knowing wink, “It seems you are in her favor.” Wistfulness passed over the administrator’s face as he said, “I have known the Lady for several years, and yet I have not once received an invitation. Perhaps one day.”

Jonathan merely nodded, unsure how to respond. He knew, from his limited interactions with Lady Ashbury, that the elder Ekon was rather guarded, and sensed he was being given a great honor by being allowed entry to her residence. 

He could understand why she would choose to meet Edgar at the hospital, or a neutral location, rather than inviting him into her home. Edgar’s inquisitiveness knew few boundaries, and the home is an expression of oneself. Jonathan felt ill at the prospect of Swansea entering his family home, examining the paintings on the wall and the items of sentimental value scattered around the house as if they were a puzzle he could take apart and put back together. The thought of him speaking to Avery and his mother was even worse. 

To imagine that same sort of attachment, but with decades’ — possibly centuries’ — worth of attachments, well, Lady Ashbury’s snub towards Swansea felt perfectly reasonable. 

Jonathan wondered if there was any merit to Geoffrey’s talk of vampire “lairs”. Was there a certain level of possessiveness endemic to Ekons, that could result in protectiveness of places, things — perhaps even people that vampires considered “theirs”? He’d have to do further research. 

Edgar continued, heedless of Jonathan’s wandering mind. “Well, send our dear Lady my best wishes when you see her.” 

He inclined his head in acknowledgement, and turned to leave, pausing when he heard Swansea’s breath hitch with the preparation of speaking again.

“Oh, and, Jonathan,” he called, “I thought you’d like to know that Vicar Larrabee has woken up. He’s been asking to speak with you.” The Ekon’s already slow heartbeat stopped as Edgar dismissed him with that final piece of foreboding news.

Jonathan made his way to the Vicar’s private room, snakes of fear writhing in his intestines. This man could single-handedly end his career, could ground to dust the already-shattered ruins of his life. _Unless you silenced him_ , a helpful voice reminded.

 _No._ He peeled his lips back in a silent snarl, then pursed them in panic as he collected himself. The nurses rushing by noticed nothing as he stalked past, too worn thin by the stresses of the epidemic to notice the needle-sharp teeth in the good doctor’s mouth.

All too soon, he reached the Vicar’s private room — formerly occupied by Harriet Jones — and hesitated at the threshold. The door opened smoothly to reveal the priest sitting upright on the standard-issue hospital bed in the center of the room.

“Ah, Dr. Reid.” Vicar Larrabee’s thin voice wafted like so much smoke from his position.

“Vicar Larrabee,” he said with a tight smile, “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, my son, and I understand that I have you to thank for it.” The priest’s keen eyes pierced Jonathan, contradicting the frailty of his form.

Dr. Reid, usually so poised and eloquent, dared not speak as his pale eyes tracked the figure in front of him, searching for signs of… what? Fear? Malice? But there was nothing besides a fatigued old priest, watching him patiently and with a gentle sort of sympathy. 

“You look like a schoolboy waiting for a reprimand,” he chuckled. Jonathan gave an uneasy huff of laughter in response. The Vicar’s face turned grim as he continued. “I believe I said some rather cruel things to you, at our last meeting. I’m sorry, for the condemnation I heaped upon you. I have no excuse aside from my own fear, and the stress of that night. Please, accept my sincere apologies for my words.”

Jonathan was left reeling. Of all the things he expected from this night, an apology was not one of them. He asked cautiously, “Vicar Larrabee, how much did you see that night?”

“You saved my life, Dr. Reid, I think that affords you the privilege of calling me by my Christian name. Please, call me Joseph.” He smiled, then smoothed the sheets consideringly. “Your sister, who I had buried mere weeks ago, appeared at the doors of my church, just as you had once. Unlike you, however, she did not come to find peace. Or at least, not any sort of solace I could provide. Once she lured me out from the safety of the church, I’m afraid my memory loses some of its clarity. Her voice — it buzzed in my head — poisoning me with her rage and pain. I’m afraid most of my accusations towards you came from that influence.” 

Jonathan’s throat tightened with the guilt that so often threatened to devour him. 

“I saw how you saved your mother, how you begged for Mary to stop. And I saw flashes of your battle, though it was difficult to understand from a mortal perspective. Everything after your sister’s assault on me, however, was beyond my comprehension, as I faded in and out of consciousness.”

This was his fault. He killed Mary; he was responsible for the trail of bodies she had left across London in her quest for vengeance. Even the Vicar before him, who was treating him so kindly, was a victim of hers — and therefore a victim of his. Had Mary treated him any more carelessly, she could have broken his mind beyond repair. Had Jonathan not pulled her off of him in time, he would be dead. By all rights, he should not have survived the night, even with Jonathan’s intervention. How could this man possibly regard him so highly, when all his troubles were Jonathan’s fault? 

Vicar Larrabee — _Joseph_ , he corrected himself — noticed his distress, and laid a brittle hand on top of Jonathan’s own knotted fingers. “I remember when you came to St. Mary’s, my son. You seemed to be swimming in so much guilt, and I can still see it in your eyes. I would like to ease that burden, if you care to share it.”

“I...I do not think I can be forgiven, Father. Nor am I a man of faith.”

“It is not a matter of being _forgiven_ , dear boy, though God is all-forgiving. But you cannot let this grief build inside you, or it will poison your spirit as surely as the sun sets and rises. Please, share your pain with me, and I will do my best to bring you comfort.”

Jonathan’s shoulders hunched. “It is not a kind tale, nor do I comprehend the whole of it.”

“And I will not force you to talk, though I believe it would help you.”

There were shards of glass scraping at the insides of Jonathan’s chest. He wanted a confidant, he wanted to spill the truth to someone who was not a player on this twisted chessboard. But first…

“Father Joseph, will you reveal to anyone my true nature? How much do you understand of what you saw?”

“I do not pretend to understand everything I saw, although I have my suspicions. But you are a good man, afflicted with a heavier burden than most, and it is my duty to give comfort. God as my life and oath, your story will not go beyond these walls.” 

_I don’t think God wants anything to do with this,_ he thought bitterly. The vicar’s word, however, brought him relief. 

And so Jonathan Reid, reluctant champion of London, made his confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter filler chapter, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! Please feel free to point out any typos/offer critique, or just leave a comment if you liked it!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realizing I've posted around or before the 20th of each month for the past four months, subsequently forming a regular posting schedule: yeah that was totally on purpose
> 
> This is a bit of a shorter chapter, sorry in advance! The next one should be longer though.

Lady Ashbury’s manor was draped in warm, dark colors. Richly decorated, paintings hanging from every wall and various knick-knacks placed on surrounding pieces of furniture like objects in a museum. If Jonathan was a betting man, he would be willing to place money on each object having a story behind it, or at least a few decades of history. 

The lady herself was reflected in the trappings of her house. It was elegant, reserved, and held the promise of fascinating stories if the owner favored you with her secrets. Jonathan could hear a fire crackling near the back of the manor. 

His gaze was arrested by the painting that dominated the entryway as Lady Ashbury cordially invited him into her home. A castle stood proudly, undefeated even as it crumbled. Dark clouds gathered in the background, though the ruins themselves were highlighted by the sunlight breaking through. _Sunlight_ , he thought wistfully. He would only ever see it in paintings now.

The painting brought him back to evenings spent with his mother and the circles of artists she would entertain, before tragedy bent her mind. He spoke as he would at one of those gatherings. “How strange this painting! Beautiful, and melancholic, yet with a haunting dignity.” 

She tilted her head at his assessment; he had the sense he had surprised her. “Indeed, a long time ago, a friend asked me to paint this for him. But I kept it in the end.” Her eyes glittered with a hidden sadness even as her voice attempted mirth.

“I did not know you were a painter, my Lady.”

“There are many things you do not know about me, young Ekon.” 

He sighed. “I do wish you would call me Jonathan.”

Her smile became more genuine at his mild annoyance. “Please excuse my behavior, Jonathan. I tend to tease my friends when I am uneasy.” 

_Are we friends?_ He wished to ask. Then, he realized the absurdity of that question. So far, Lady Ashbury had saved his life when he had foolishly turned his back on William Bishop, still ignorant of the world he had been thrust into. Jonathan had saved her from an unpleasant spot of blackmail, only to walk in on her doing exactly as she was accused. In turn, she had provided him with the answers he was so desperate to acquire. Each of these encounters had been colored with no small amount of bewilderment and unease on his part, and distrust on hers. 

_Things had changed_ , he reflected, _after their talk in the graveyard_. She had been worried for him, seeing the way the guilt had threatened to consume him, and convinced him to speak with the Vicar. _Which was greater providence than she could have foreseen._ After that, she was more present in his life, stopping to speak with him at the hospital, providing him with information as needed, comforting him after Mary’s death – both times. Elisabeth had taken on the role of his mentor – a stand-in for his absent Maker – and for that he would be forever grateful. He was gladdened to know that she counted him as a friend as well. 

“What is the cause of your uneasiness, your Ladyship? Your letter was quite alarming.”

Her face tightened, the smile returning to its more forced state. “Let’s discuss it over tea. And please, call me Elisabeth. It’s a privilege I afford to my friends.” 

As she led him deeper into the well-appointed manor, he remarked, “I must say your house is exquisite.”

“One of the advantages of living forever is having the time to be selective,” she replied easily. “But I thank you anyway.”

“One day, I would like to hear some of the stories behind some of your furnishings, I’m sure you have many.”

“When we reach better days, I will be happy to share such tales with you.I took the liberty of having tea served.” Elisabeth motioned to the chairs in front of the fire, inviting him to sit down. 

“You can still drink tea?” He asked in disbelief. He thought back to one of his moments of hopeful denial involving a drink at the Turtle, and the subsequent stream of bile and regret in the streets. 

She laughed, detecting his jealousy. “Can’t keep it down, but I do so enjoy the aroma.” She raised her cup. “Let us toast to make believe! And of course, to your health, Jonathan.” 

“And to yours, my La– Elisabeth.” He smiled as they clinked their cups together. There was comfort in the normalcy of their actions, even if neither of them could complete the charade. The tea warmed his hands, and the smell soothed him. They spent a few minutes in silence, enjoying the warmth and quiet of their environment. 

Unfortunately, the peace could not last forever. Elisabeth took a sharp breath and set her cup upon the china. “Now, to business.” She stated simply. “I wish this could be simply a social call, but,” her green eyes narrowed, “I have been asked to deliver an official invitation to you, from the Ascalon Club.”

His lips curled in distaste. “The Ascalon Club. Fergal had mentioned them several times in his attempts to intimidate me.” _Before I killed him_ , he thought. “Who are they, exactly?” 

“The Ascalon Club is the _elite_ of British vampire society. They are exclusive, secretive, and they claim to safeguard, or even direct, the destiny of the Empire. In short, they have great influence, and they have evidently taken an interest in you.” 

“And why would that be?”

Her eyebrow arched. “Because you’re a powerful new Ekon, and an unknown variable. You have already killed their enforcer. They want to make sure you are safely… contained, within their power, before you can become a threat to them. Not to mention– you are exactly Ascalon material. A well-bred doctor from a wealthy West-End family, _and_ an Ekon of potent lineage? That is their ideal recruit.” 

“You seem rather cynical of their motives.” 

“Simply practical, my dear, although I suppose after living for so long, one’s optimism does tend to get tarnished.” Elisabeth sighed. “I do not wish to discourage you from meeting them, quite the opposite. They could prove useful allies in your fight against the epidemic, should you manage to gain their favor. I simply wanted to warn you that they do nothing out of a sense of altruism. They have been playing chess with the Empire practically since its inception.” 

He leaned back in his chair, pensively tracing the rim of his tea with his index. “Why did they choose to contact me through you? Why not approach me themselves?”

“They have spies everywhere, Jonathan. They would know we are close.”

Jonathan’s heart seized, remembering all his encounters with McCullum. Had they been watching? Had he put McCullum in danger? _Stop that_ , he reprimanded, _he has a lifetime of hunting vampires, and a militia for his protection; he is fine._ Still, the thought of the man coming to harm filled him with an uncomfortable sense of fear. _We have a bargain that ends in my death, and I’m worried for_ his _safety?_ He shook his head to clear his thoughts. 

Elisabeth continued, mercifully ignoring his sudden look of panic. “That, and your tendency to execute unknown Ekons, may have contributed to their decision.” She shot a smirk at him. 

Jonathan spluttered in outrage. “They _always_ attack first, or they are in the process of harming a human, I cannot abide by that.” 

She raised her hands in surrender. “I am not shaming you– I believe you act with good judgement, on most occasions at least. I’m simply saying that Ascalon is right to be wary of you.” Her voice grew satisfied. “Personally, I think they deserve to have a little fear struck into their hearts.” 

“And what is your quarrel with them?”

“Always asking after a lady’s secrets, aren’t you Jonathan?”

“I didn’t mean to pry, I–”

“I’m teasing, Jonathan, I will let you know if I truly do not want to answer. To be honest, my disagreements with the club are a matter of their principles and their attitudes. They look down upon anyone who is not exactly like them; humans are mere pawns to them– unless they are wealthy enough. Women, Ekon and human alike, are feeble-minded at best and vipers at worst. We are not allowed entry into the club. Ascalon, especially its founder, Lord Redgrave–” If Lady Ashbury was not so refined, her expression upon uttering that name would have been called a snarl. “–choose to use their resources for nothing but their own enrichment, playing petty games of power between members. They prey upon those who would not be missed, anyone who, in their mind, does not contribute value to their _great empire_.” The words were spoken with a cold disgust. 

“It sounds,” he said cautiously, “like their interests would not align with my work as a healer. Unless–”

“Unless?” She prompted.

Alarm sparked. “Unless there has been an outbreak in the West End.”

“You catch on quickly, Jonathan.”

Fear gnawed at his heart. He had avoided seeing his mother and Avery out of shame and grief, unable to face them after Mary’s death. But what if they were to pass before he could see them again? He could not put it off any longer. 

“I need to see my family.” 

Elisabeth must have seen something in his face, because she laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Jonathan,” she said softly, “I know how hard it is– to feel like you are unforgivable. But please, the blame for Mary’s death lies solely at the feet of your absent maker, for not guiding you as you needed.”

“He was not the one who tore out her throat,” he responded quietly. “He was not the one she begged to end her a second time.” 

Sorrow pinched her elegant features. “I know.”

Jonathan stood up with new resolve. “Thank you, Elisabeth, for the tea, and the information. I must take my leave for the night– there is much work to do.” 

She led him to the door. “I do not plan on keeping you. But Jonathan– please be careful. You are so new to this life, and it is a dangerous world.”

He smiled grimly. “I’ll do my best.” 

“And please,” she sounded exasperated at this point, “Stop by for tea when the city isn’t crumbling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm team Give Elisabeth A Personality Outside Of Being Jonathan's Love Interest 2020. I do love my gal Elisabeth.  
> Geoffrey finally makes his return in the next chapter and we get that sweet sweet McReid banter


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, it's been a rough few weeks, I'm glad I was still on track enough to post this chapter. Stay safe out there, and please leave a comment if you enjoyed :)

The hunter had not interacted directly with Reid since that night at the Turtle, although Geoffrey would occasionally stop by the Pembroke, to reassure himself that he wasn’t going off the deep end by keeping a vampire on a loose leash. But every time he went, all he could see through the window was a doctor doing his rounds: offering medicine, comfort, and advice to his patients. And if he dispatched a skal before Geoffrey could even reach the gardens where he heard its rabid howls, well, that was another advantage. 

Jonathan sensed him every time Geoffrey stepped onto the grounds of Pembroke. He was becoming increasingly attuned to McCullum’s presence, able to pick up the rhythm of his footsteps and the pattern of his heart. He would cast about for a glimpse, sometimes catching the arterial outline of the hunter from a distant roof, only for him to disappear after a few minutes. 

Neither organizing the next Great Hunt of London, nor trying to cure the city of its ailments, however, left much time for conversation, despite any personal intrigue.

The next time McCullum actually spoke to Reid, the doctor was on his rounds in Whitechapel. 

“Hello, McCullum.” There had been a certain easing of tensions between the two since that night at the Turtle. McCullum, despite his best efforts, was beginning to like the man, which was a problem for a great many reasons, all of which could be boiled down to the reality that Reid was not a man, but a leech, and McCullum forgetting that was a betrayal to all Priwen stood for. Reid, on the other hand, would maintain that he never harbored any animosity for the hunter to begin with.

McCullum acknowledged him with an upwards tilt of his chin. “Reid, what brings you here?”

“I was just checking in on a few patients nearby. I can’t leave them all to the mercy of the Swanborough Cordiale.” His expression wrinkled at the reference. “I’m glad to have found you here, however, I was hoping to see you soon.” 

“And why would that be?” 

“What do you know of the Ascalon Club?” 

McCullum scowled. “Enough to despise them.”

“More so than the average leech?” Reid’s tone was amused, but the question was in earnest.

“Much more,” he spat. “Skals, sewer beasts, and even some Ekons – killing them is a matter of public safety. These bastards though, they’re cruel, and manipulative, and are parasites in every sense of the word. Why are you even asking about them?”

“It appears I’ve made an impression, they’ve invited me to come to one of their meetings. I assume it’s a recruitment.”

Geoffrey’s expression stayed mostly neutral, but alarm spiked his heart rate. “You can’t.”

Jonathan, naturally, heard the rise. “I met with a, ah, contact of mine, who gave me very similar insight as you into the club. I have my reservations, but I...don’t think this is a summons I can avoid.”

“Why not?” Geoffrey asked heatedly.

“I have reason to believe that there’s an outbreak of the flu in the West End; they might have information and resources I need.”

“And? People are dying from the flu here in the poorer districts in droves. At least the rich sods over there can afford doctors.”

“My _family_ lives in the West End,” he hissed, teeth bared. It was the most aggression Geoffrey had ever seen from the doctor. He reared back, hand dropping to the stake in its holster. Then Reid’s shoulders slumped, and the moment passed. “What remains of my family, at least.” 

“Reid…” An _I’m sorry_ , lingered on the tip of his tongue.

He straightened, once again looking regal. “I’m going, McCullum. I’m not asking for permission, I was asking for information.” 

Geoffrey exhaled, deep and frustrated. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like this, but I won’t stop you. I’m coming with you, though.” 

“Are you concerned for my safety, hunter?” Reid teased.

“You’re...more tolerable than the average leech.” Geoffrey admitted grudgingly. “Can’t have you dying before our deal is up.”

Reid’s smile dimmed a little at the reminder of their bargain. McCullum quashed the pang of regret. Instead, he warned the Ekon, “They’re going to use you, you know. I assume your mysterious _contact_ warned you of that.”

“And what makes you think I won’t use them in return?” One of Reid’s eyebrows arched with the question. 

“Never seen you be so conniving, Reid. Looks very leechy on you.” 

“I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult.”

Geoffrey rolled his eyes. “So, when is this meeting happening?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

“Fine, I’ll meet you at the West End gate then, the one near Pembroke, right after sundown. We can go over our strategy then.”

“Tomorrow night, then.” Jonathan inclined his head in agreement. “Oh, and McCullum–how do you feel about meeting my mother?” 

Geoffrey choked. “Excuse me?” 

**~~~**

Sundown came faster than expected, and Geoffrey found himself loitering at the gate near the West End. He had spent the day arranging patrol rotations and informing his captains of their targets for the night. He itched to join them, but the chance to gain inside information on the Ascalon Club was invaluable. Didn’t mean he was comfortable though; even standing this close to toff territory felt like asking for trouble, and not the sort that he could resolve with a good sword-strike. 

Finally, a figure resolved itself from the lamplight and pools of shadows, coming into clear definition. Reid looked paler than usual, if that was possible. He seemed shaken, although he tried to hide it behind his usual pleasant facade when he noticed McCullum staring. “So we meet again...vampire hunter,” he announced gravely, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

Geoffrey responded with a soft snort. “Have you considered becoming an actor? That sort of theater might suit you more than the surgical kind.” The sarcasm lay thick in his words, and Jonathan gave him a thin smile. “Come off it, I can tell something’s wrong. What’s eating at you?” McCullum pressed.

Jonathan supposed it was progress that he didn’t call him leech.

He hesitated for a moment, but McCullum stood there, steady and unyielding, with a certain look in his eye that told Jonathan he wouldn’t move until he told him what was wrong. Oddly enough, he felt more comfortable trusting McCullum with his troubles than anyone else.

“I met my maker,” Reid informed him lowly.

Geoffrey stood, struck mute. He forgot, sometimes, how being a vampire required being _made_. He remembered that Reid did not choose this life. 

“Well, I suppose ‘met’ is too strong of a word. He – it? – was more an apparition than a man, a figure made entirely of blood, with four horns sprouting from his head. Nor did he give me a name.” Jonathan continued, oblivious of Geoffrey’s internal crisis. 

“Hold on a minute, did you say he was _made_ of blood?”

Reid brightened at the interruption. “Yes, do you know what that means?”

Geoffrey didn’t, but he had suspicions. He knew, whoever or whatever made Reid, they were old. And old meant powerful. He thought back to all his hours in the archives with Carl, the sharp eyes of his mentor watching him as he urged him to _know thy enemy_. Knowledge was power, and while they weren’t the dusty academics of the Brotherhood, a leader could not afford to be ignorant. 

There was something scratching at the back of his mind. Something about a horned figure and William Marshall. He had spent ages poring over every document on Marshall, back when there was enough time and resources to focus on a singular missing ancient vampire. _What was he forgetting?_ He resolved to check the records when he returned to Priwen. 

For now, he shook his head, and Jonathan’s expression fell once again. _For a creature of deceit, Reid was remarkably bad at hiding his feelings_ , Geoffrey thought. 

“Right, then,” the doctor said stiltedly. “Let’s just—” he waved his hand, _“get this over with”_ being implied clearly with the gesture. 

Together, the pair turned and entered the West End. The clean streets and empty silence were a stark contrast to the poorer areas Geoffrey was used to patrolling. McCullum didn’t come here without a purpose, and leeches didn’t target people the police would bother to search for. 

Reid inhaled deeply next to him. “The West End. Never have I felt so sad to be back home.” The Ekon’s eyes glimmered with barely-suppressed emotion. Geoffrey remembered his first time returning to Dublin after his family. He was there on a hunt, of course. Walking the same streets he traversed as a child with new eyes. It felt...hollow. 

“Can’t imagine growing up in a place like this,” he remarked. 

Geoffrey angled his head to subtly watch Reid. He examined the differences between them. The clothes, that was the first, most obvious disparity. Geoffrey’s clothing was sturdy, but old. Patches were obvious, and stitches were littered about the fabric, occasionally with scars underneath to mirror them. It wasn’t something that bothered him; the life of a vampire-hunter did not require the newest fashions. Most of his funds were spent on weapons and feeding his men– the hem of his coat fraying was not a concern. But still, it was clear that he and Reid were not cut from the same cloth. 

Less obvious, but impossible to ignore when it was brought to attention, was their postures. Reid moved with the fluid grace of a predator, more panther than person. His head was held high, his spine straight and shoulders set back with military precision. Geoffrey held himself similarly, but his shoulders curved forward, eyes constantly scanning the shadows. His steps were more solid, his humanity offsetting his companion’s eerie unconscious elegance. McCullum was confident, but Reid walked like he _belonged_ here. 

His companion looked lost in his reveries of better times, walking past ghosts on the pavement. Geoffrey needed to ground him back in the present; it wasn’t safe to walk the streets so absently. “Did the priest pull through?” He asked, saying the first thing that came to mind. 

Jonathan blinked, coming back down to earth. “I’m sorry?” 

“The priest, the one from that night in the graveyard. Did he make it?”

“Oh, Vicar Larrabee–yes, he’s doing much better.”

“Good,” he nodded, “That’s good.” Feeling a bit like an idiot from the inane conversation, and having accomplished his goal of yanking Reid back into the present, Geoffrey resolved to keep his mouth shut. 

Reid, evidently, wouldn’t let him. “You thought I would lose him, after all that trouble?” He raised an eyebrow teasingly. 

Geoffrey scoffed. “Arrogant bastard.” 

He gave a catlike smile. “I have a reputation to uphold.” 

Geoffrey knew Reid’s standing in the medical world. Eminent researcher, _incredible_ battlefield surgeon. McCullum always did his due diligence on his targets. Not for the first time, Geoffrey wondered what could have been, if Reid hadn’t been turned. Priwen could have used a man like him– warrior and healer all in one. The _what could have been_ was beautiful in its bittersweetness. 

A few inches away, Jonathan wandered in his own mind, thinking back to his conversation with the vicar. 

“Was I wrong, in thinking I heard another voice as you carried me to the hospital?” Larrabee had asked, still barely more colorful than the sheets covering him.

Jonathan had responded hesitantly. “Yes. There was. I...could not trust myself to bring you to the hospital alone.”

“Ah,” he said eloquently. A pause. “Well, perhaps, if you could confide in this other person, as well, it might make your troubles lighter.” As if Jonathan had not just admitted to the temptation to murder him. Still, his advice rang true. Out of everyone in this cursed life, McCullum was perhaps the one who understood him best. 

The man in question prodded him, once again anchoring him to the present moment. “No, the Vicar is fine. Still recovering, but fine.”

Geoffrey eyed him oddly. “How much did he remember from that night?”

Jonathan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “More than I’d have preferred,” he admitted.

“Should I talk to him?” There was a concerned draw to his brow.

Jonathan was surprised. “Are you worried for me?” He nudged McCullum with his shoulder, a pleased smile on his face. Despite standing on opposing sides of a centuries-long conflict, hunter and hunted, predator and prey, he was falling into an easy familiarity with the prickly man.

McCullum scowled, but didn’t flinch away at the contact. “Can’t have you run out of Pembroke just yet– would make you a lot harder to track. Besides, Priwen could always use more holy men.” 

Jonathan shuddered, too familiar with the effects of a cross brandished by the right hands. The light lancing through him like the sun, tearing into what remained of his soul. He didn’t think he could bear to see Larrabee’s kind devotion turned into that same kind of weapon. “You wouldn’t,” he said, scandalized. “Joseph is my patient, and _vampire hunting_ is not on his prescribed list of treatments.”

“Oh, so it’s Joseph now?” McCullum crowed, happy to have the upper hand once again. “Careful, doc, you’re starting to sound a little territorial.” 

Jonathan grumbled, the sound resonating deep in his chest, and walked on. 

As they drew closer to the West End proper, Geoffrey noted the increasing tension in his companion’s body. His shoulders drew together, his eyes gained the shine of a cornered animal, dread and panic mixing in the grey-blue. He alternated between speeding up and dragging his feet, as if he could not decide whether to hurry towards the inevitable or fend it off for as long as possible. Finally, he stopped in the middle of the road, a mere block from Reid Manor. “I should inquire as to the state of the epidemic here, to know what we are walking into.” Geoffrey was ready to call him out on his bullshit; he was avoiding facing his family for as long as possible, and they both knew why. But Jonathan had already turned on his heel and was striding towards a man gesticulating passionately from underneath a stone-covered marketplace. Geoffrey snorted in frustration and accelerated to catch up. 

“Excuse me, sir. If I could ask you a few questions, please.” Jonathan began politely, but the pale, twitchy-looking man he approached interrupted him.

“What Johnny, has it been that long? Don’t you recognize your oldest friend?” His brows knitted with a moment’s confusion, then realization dawned on Jonathan’s face.

“Clarence!” He exclaimed. Heedless of any tight-laced social etiquette, he swept his best friend into a crushing hug. “Clarence Crossley! So you survived the war too. I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.” Jonathan pushed him back out again, firmly gripping his old friend by his shoulders as he inspected what changes the years had wrought. 

His suit hung in an ill-fitted manner, like he had lost a considerable amount of weight since it had been tailored. “To be honest, I almost didn’t recognize you either. War does that to people, I’m told,” he said with a hollow laugh. The bags under his eyes were deep with shadows. 

“Have you been eating enough? You look so thin,” Jonathan fussed. “Are you feeling alright?”

Clarence wriggled out of his grasp. “Christ, Johnny, you’ve been back for all of five seconds and you’re already nagging me about my wellbeing. A little late for visiting hours, don’t you think?”

“What can I say?” he responded warmly. “I haven’t lost my old habits.” 

Mischief danced across Clarence’s face, bringing a youth to his drawn countenance. “I hope we’re talking about the same habits, old friend.” He leaned back, finally taking note of Jonathan’s shadow. “Who’s your friend?” He asked.

McCullum hung back, allowing the two their reunion. He had marveled, watching the joy melt years off of Reid’s face. He realized in that moment, that he had never seen Reid without an albatross around his neck, the guilt of what he had done to his sister and the fear of what he could do hovering ever-present behind him. Jonathan drew him forward. “McCullum, this is Clarence Crossley, my oldest and dearest friend. Clarence, this is Geoffrey McCullum, my– ahh,” he trailed off, not sure how to explain the hunter’s presence.

McCullum snorted. It seemed Reid oscillated wildly between being a silvertongued devil, and being the worst liar Geoffrey had ever seen. Currently, he was the latter. Luckily for the both of them, Geoffrey was used to creating cover stories on the spot when he needed to justify his presence to suspicious coppers. 

He cut in, sparing all of them from Jonathan’s stumbling explanation. “You could say I’m his bodyguard. Dr. Reid is investigating the epidemic, and I’m here to protect him from being attacked in the streets.” Most of that was technically not a lie, although he declined to mention that he was largely preventing his own men from hunting Reid. Or that he was also ensuring Reid wouldn’t snap and drain some poor sod in a dark alley. Still, mostly not a lie. 

Clarence relaxed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McCullum. It’s quite a relief to know that Jonathan isn’t traveling the city at night unprotected. You two have no idea what sort of dangers lurk in the shadows at night.” 

Amusement sparked in Geoffrey’s chest at the man’s statement, both at the implication of his own ignorance and the stark reality that this man’s best friend was, in fact, one of the most dangerous beasts to hunt in the dark.

Reid, however, looked concerned. “Clarence, what do you mean?”

Crossley looked hesitantly at Geoffrey, then refocused on his friend. “Vampires, Johnny,” he whispered. “I know you’ll think I’m crazy– but they’re real! They’re here! I have to warn everyone.”

 _Oh, that’s gotta hurt_. Geoffrey stole a glance at Reid, who looked like he was going to be sick. His face had petrified into a mask of horror, stealing what little color remained in his face. “Vampires—really?”

 _Christ, he really was a shit liar_. Luckily for him, Clarence seemed oblivious to Jonathan’s panic. “I’m not mad Johnny, you have to believe me! They’ve killed so many already, hiding behind the war and the epidemic! We’re all in danger here!”

Reid reached out, making soothing noises as he grasped his friend by his upper arms, slowing his frenetic motions. “Shhh, it’s alright, it’s alright. Clarence…I believe you.”

 _Reid was playing a dangerous game,_ Geoffrey thought. _How close would he dance to the truth?_

**~~~**

It was a painful irony to realize what Clarence was spending his nights warning against, was in fact his own self. Clarence practically collapsed into him after he had assured him of his good faith. “Thank you, Johnny. You don’t know what that means to me, to have someone finally believe me. Even Venus thinks I’m mad!”

Jonathan knew far too well that what he was saying was true. Even now, he worried. Would Clarence be suspicious, would he notice the coolness of his hands, or how his heart beat too slow when he hugged him? 

“God, what am I doing?” Clarence shook his head. “I should be asking after you instead of burdening you with my problems too. I’m so sorry about Mary– how are you holding up? Venus was devastated when she heard the news. I’ve been checking in on your mother and Avery while I distribute my leaflets.”

Jonathan felt the last little shred of happiness that he felt upon seeing his friend slip away as the guilt came roaring back. Behind him, Geoffrey’s fingers twitched, wishing, despite himself, to lay a comforting hand on Reid’s shoulder. 

“I just wish I could have saved her,” Jonathan choked out. 

“Oh, Johnny,” Clarence whispered, “It’s not your fault.”

That was quite possibly the worst thing he could have said– because it was, it was his fault. However much he blamed his mysterious maker, he was the one who killed her, both times. 

Jonathan looked pained as he let his friend go. “You need some rest, Clarence. Try to get some sleep.” He straightened. “As for me, I need to see my family.” 

“Alright,” Clarence shook his head. “I’m sure you’re busy with the epidemic, but stop by for dinner sometime, won’t you? I’m sure Venus would like to see you as well. She’ll probably ask you to talk some sense into me, like you used to.” He gave a wan grin. “Good thing I already got you on my side.” 

Jonathan returned the smile, though it was more brittle than before. Clarence nodded to McCullum, then shook his hand. “Keep this one safe for me, will you? He’s a bit daft at times, but he grows on you.” 

The urge to laugh startled Geoffrey. Here was a tweedy, twitchy little man, charging him with the protection of one of the most dangerous predators in the city of London, tossing a friendly insult at the vampire simultaneously. Oddly enough, Geoffrey was inclined to accommodate Clarence’s request. “I’ll do my best,” he said. One more farewell wave, and the pair headed off. 

Jonathan forged ahead, trying not to seem like he was fleeing from the man who was once his closest friend. He stopped after a suitable distance, staring at a familiar house in the distance, framed by two stone lions. Was it still his home? Could he even enter without permission?

“You alright, Reid?” McCullum asked quietly. 

“No,” Jonathan admitted, “but it’s time I went home.” His jaw tightened, throat thick with guilt, as he prepared himself to return to his childhood home. Clarence had returned to his preaching, cries of “It could be someone you know!” echoing behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 10/13: School is kicking my ass right now, so the next update might not be until I finish the semester (end of November). This story is not abandoned by any means, but it may be very slow going for the next few weeks!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan Reid goes home (also known as "Johnny has a bad time".docx)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, pinballing between angst and humor: parkour
> 
> I know I've been missing for a hot minute but this chapter is double my average word count, so that has to count for something right? Aas always, feel free to roast me over any grammatical/spelling errors, and let me know whether you liked it!

The two stood before a grand townhouse, a pair of stone lions watching them impassively from the stair railings. McCullum wondered what it was like, growing up here, needs always taken care of. He remembered the edge of hunger each night, the cramped quarters that he shared with Ian, the way his mother’s hands would be rubbed raw from washing for wealthier families to keep food in their stomachs between his father’s long months at sea. Even though two decades separated him from that life, he couldn’t help the pang of jealousy in his stomach as he stared at the marble felines standing sentry. 

Standing before those familiar steps, Jonathan couldn’t bring himself to move an inch further. The house was the same, yet even from the outside it seemed as if its spirit had left. It was a hollow shell of its former glory, no evidence of the life and laughter that had once filled it.

It took a long while for Reid to gather the courage to ascend the few steps separating the street from the door. McCullum could see the fear in his eyes as he hesitated to knock. His knuckles engaged in an anxious flight, hovering over the finely carved wood. The moment seemed to drag out, until Jonathan’s shoulders slumped and set his fist to the door.

A few moments passed before McCullum heard the telltale sound of footsteps. The door eased open, a frail old man standing in the entryway. “Master Jonathan!” He exclaimed. The Ekon winced. “Hello, Avery.”

The old man—Avery— ushered them inside, not noticing Jonathan’s slight hesitation at the threshold. “Please, please, come in! I’ll put some tea on. Oh, Master Jonathan, we were so afraid that—well. Oh, Madame Reid will be overjoyed.” Avery hustled away, leaving the two men in the warm parlor. Reid, Geoffrey noted, looked shell-shocked. The Ekon wandered the room, feet moving soundlessly over plush carpet. Geoffrey lingered by the fire, looking at the pictures framed above the mantle. 

He paused by one, showing a family of four in a picturesque park with the Eiffel Tower looming behind them. Geoffrey studied it closely. The man had the same stature as Jonathan, well-built and towering over the rest of his family. His face was laughing and open, one hand wrapped warmly around his wife’s torso and the other clasped proudly on a young Jonathan’s Reid’s shoulder. Jonathan in the photo seemed to be about thirteen or fourteen. He looked gangly and awkward, his body not having grown in proportion to his limbs; _it was rather funny to see, really_ , Geoffrey thought. Such a contrast to the sophisticated image the doctor presented now. Young Jonathan’s yet-unbroken nose was scrunched up as the boy squinted into the sunlight, giving him an irritated countenance. Beside him, his sister— _oh, so that’s_ _Mary,_ he thought— smirked as if indulging in some joke at the viewer’s expense. 

The similarities between Jonathan and his father stopped at hair color and build. Everything else, as far as Geoffrey could tell, Jonathan shared with his mother. They had the same eyes, the same facial structure, the same avian nose. Her eyes were alight with laughter, and she leaned into her husband’s embrace with such obvious affection it made Geoffrey’s heart ache. 

He felt Jonathan draw close behind him, reaching past him to grab the picture. Tilting his head, he saw Jonathan’s faint smile as he ran a thumb over the frame. “My mother loved France,” Jonathan recalled. “We went every summer to see her family. Bordeaux— that’s where she grew up; Mary and I used to spend the time wandering my grandparents’ vineyard there. Paris is where her sister lived with her family. They had a daughter who was Mary’s age, and the two of them were thick as thieves during the summers they visited. As the oldest of the bunch, I always thought they were all terribly annoying— the two younger brothers especially were right terrors— and would usually hide somewhere with a book until they found me and dragged me out.” He chuckled softly. “Mother hated the Eiffel Tower; she thought it was ‘the most hideous piece of architecture to be constructed on French soil’. She refused to call it anything but ‘the awful tower’ instead of the Eiffel. She said it looked like it belonged in an American factory, which is her version of the highest insult. Naturally, my father insisted we get a picture with it.” 

Geoffrey couldn’t help but laugh at that— it seemed that the spirit of mischief was passed down through the generations. 

Avery returned, setting down the tea. _God, he seemed so frail that a single strong breeze would scatter him_. “I can’t believe my own eyes!” Avery reached out like he wanted to touch Jonathan’s face, reassure himself that this was real, tangible. He stopped partway, rules of propriety forcing him to reluctantly return his hand to his side. He continued “We all thought you were— well. Oh sir, your poor sister.”

“I know about my sister’s murder, Avery.” Geoffrey could hear how the words were rubbed raw with guilt, even as Reid’s expression remained flat, only the tightness at the corners of his eyes hinting at his turmoil. 

“Your mother never stopped believing you would return to help, right up until the funeral.”

“To be present at the funeral with you both was my dearest wish, Avery. But I’m sorry, I simply could not attend.” 

Avery’s lips thinned, but he patted Reid’s hand comfortingly. “I wouldn’t dare to question your absence, Mr. Jonathan. All I can say is that we missed you a great deal during those difficult days.” 

“How is my mother?” He asked urgently.

The butler hesitated. “She is...not well, Mr. Jonathan. Perhaps as a physician, you could see to her? With the epidemic, I have not felt safe to take her to a doctor.”

Jonathan gave a solemn nod. “That was the right choice to make, Avery. It is safer for her to stay here, all things considered.” Avery’s shoulders relaxed fractionally at the reassurance. 

“Very good, sir.” He responded. “But,” Avery hesitated again. “Sir, you should know it is not so much her physical health I am worried about.” At this, he gave a meaningful look at Geoffrey, clearly unwilling to air dirty laundry in the presence of an outsider. 

Jonathan sighed. “Geoffrey, would you mind giving Avery and I a moment alone?”

Geoffrey figured this was as good a time as any to investigate the rest of the house, so he obliged. He lingered by the cracked door, though, just in case. 

The butler’s voice was too faint to make out in some places, fading in and out as Geoffrey strained his ears: “Very fragile...the police...”

Jonathan’s concerned exclamation was much easier to make out in contrast. “The police! What happened?” 

“Found wandering the streets… saying she had spoken with her son and daughter!”

Geoffrey could nearly feel Jonathan’s flinch from here— he had confided in Geoffrey, that hazy night at the bar, about the emptiness in his mother’s eyes as Mary took her twisted delight in turning her into a puppet. 

Within the room, Jonathan felt the sharp sting of remembrance as well— seeing his mother in the graveyard, her seeing _him_ with that horribly blank look, and that terrible moment when Mary yanked her head to the side, convinced he was going to see the last member of his family die in front of him. “That is another thing,” Avery paused again, “There’s a chance she may believe you are, well, dead. We spent so long with you missing, and after Mary passed, she was convinced her whole family was gone. But sir,” Avery’s voice took on a pleading tone, “Please be patient with her. Perhaps, seeing you here, now, will shake her out of her state.” 

Jonathan was filled with a deep sadness as he replied. “Of course, I’ll be patient. Thank you for the warning.” Silence pooled between them, then he continued. “Avery, you have been with us for so long. I can’t remember a time without you here. But, do you feel forced to stay? I would understand, if you desired to leave, to see family.”

Avery gave him a shocked look. “Where else would I go, sir? My sisters are dead, and I have never met my nephews. _This_ has been my family for quite a long time now.”

“Well, in that case,” Jonathan felt the flood of relief surge through his system. No matter what happened to him, at least his mother would be taken care of. “I want to thank you, Avery, for being here when I could not be, and caring for mother and Mary in her grief.” 

“Of course, Mr. Jonathan. I treasured Mary like my own daughter, and you like my son, though you are grown and have paved your own path.”

Jonathan felt his carefully built composure crack like a dam with that final statement. He felt his knees start to buckle, Avery reaching under his arms to support him in a motion that quickly turned into a hug. Jonathan returned the embrace, mindful of his strength but needing time to hide the red tears welling in his eyes. The man patted his back comfortingly, just like his father would when he was a child, which only caused his shoulders to shake harder with suppressed sobs. 

All the trauma of the past few weeks— _had it truly only been a few weeks?_ — was crashing down as Avery offered him his continuous support and kindness, unconditionally. He didn’t deserve it, not when he carried the weight of being his sister’s twice-murderer and part of the reason for his mother’s fragile mind. Everyone from his life before was dead or damaged or preaching paranoia against creatures of the night, except for ever-constant Avery Cook. And he couldn’t bear to lose that last sliver of his past, unable to imagine the revulsion on the man’s face if he ever found out the truth. 

Finally, Jonathan’s tears ran out. He straightened, turning his face from the man who had helped raise him until he could wipe away any crimson-colored tear tracks and the redness of could pass for the simple bloodshot eyes of someone who had recently wept. He cleared his throat. “I should go check on Mother.” 

Avery, bless him, simply smiled and patted his hand again. “I’ll bring her down, you stay here with Mr. McCullum and drink your tea.” He gently pushed Jonathan into one of the plush chairs and left. 

Jonathan heard the door open with the subtle swish of the bottom across the carpet, then a “Hello, Mr. McCullum.” Jonathan was torn between equal amounts of embarrassment and amusement. He had been caught red-handed so many times in his youth by the perceptive butler, and the satisfaction of someone else being on the receiving end of Avery’s wry admonishments never wore off. On the other hand, it was entirely likely Geoffrey heard him breaking down during his eavesdropping, and Jonathan couldn’t pull himself together quickly enough to pretend it didn’t happen. That would make it the second time he’d let his emotions get the better of him in the man’s presence. Even standing on opposing sides of the Great Hunt (though Reid couldn’t say he opposed him in his hunt, not truly; he’d seen too many of his kind callously murdering the less fortunate in the streets to object), he wished for McCullum’s friendship. Or if friendship was too distant of a goal, then at least his respect. 

Geoffrey entered the room, dipping his head at Reid. “Everything alright?” His expression was too knowing for that question to be asked honestly. 

Jonathan nodded, the blatant lie only deepening the concerned furrow of McCullum’s brow. At this point, Jonathan felt he would rather flee the country than face his mother, but he supposed he couldn’t put it off any longer, and swallowed the apprehension that was making sailor’s knots out of his vocal cords. He vacillated, hating the silence, then spotted blessed relief in the form of the steam rising from the pot. “Let me get you some tea.” He surged from his chair, eager for any distraction.

He offered the cup to Geoffrey. “Any cream or sugar?” 

“I’ll have a bit of cream, thanks.” Jonathan obliged, pouring a dash into Geoffrey’s cup. The delicate china was cradled carefully in his calloused fingers, and Geoffrey stared consideringly at the surface of the liquid before taking a sip. His eyebrows raised. “That’s good tea.” 

Jonathan smiled. “Avery has a gift, it seems. I’ve always thought tea made by him tasted better than anyone else’s.” 

“And here I thought it was just your fancy toff tea doing the trick. Good to know it helps to have a butler make it.” He took another sip. “Aren’t you going to have any?” Jonathan looked at him dryly, and he winced. “Ah, right.” 

He was spared from further awkwardness by Jonathan’s mother making an appearance. Emelyne Reid drifted into the room like a washed-out ghost, guided by Avery. Geoffrey wandered how she could possibly be the same vibrant woman from the photograph. But the eyes, though rheumy, were the same. There was no doubt that this was Jonathan’s mother. 

Those same eyes lit up at the sight of Reid. “Jonathan, is it you? Where have you been, my prodigal son?” She hobbled closer. 

Jonathan’s face was...difficult to read. Joy and pain blended so closely together that Geoffrey could not tell where one ended and the other began. He shakily brought a hand to his mother’s cheek. “I’m right here, mother. I’m finally home.” His voice grew choked. 

She hummed, “Yes, for this son of mine was dead and is alive again. He was lost, and now he is found.” Geoffrey shot Reid an alarmed look at that, one that was mirrored on his face. Jonathan parted his lips to ask what she meant, but she continued brightly. “But where is your sister, where is Mary?”

“Mary!” Jonathan said, astonished. “Mary is gone, mother.” The words were blunt, but managed to dig into his heart like a dagger as he spoke them.

“I know she is!” His mother waved a hand as if this was a nonissue. “My question is when will she return as you have? I miss my grandson so much, it’s been days since their last visit.” 

Jonathan looked stricken, and Geoffrey felt a pang of pity for the man. Avery cleared his throat. “Mr. McCullum, if I could have a word with you?” He discreetly tilted his head towards the door. Which, fine, it was understandable in Geoffrey’s opinion, but being politely banished from the room only a few minutes after returning was rather awkward. He didn’t really want to leave Reid with that heartbroken look on his face, either. It was unfair that a vampire could look so much like a kicked stray. He cursed inwardly, how could he be getting soft for a leech? 

He grabbed his tea, not wanting it to get cold in his absence, before following the butler out the door. No sense in letting good tea go to waste. 

~~~

Her state was so much worse than he feared. Whether it was Mary’s influence, or her own heartbreak, she was so drastically different from the woman in Jonathan’s memory. He remembered how the spark in her eyes had dimmed after Aubrey abandoned them, how he threw himself into his work to distance himself from the anger. Mary was the one who held them together in that difficult time—she dragged Jonathan down to the dinner table and arranged dinner parties with their mother’s artist friends. She kept him from saying something ill-advised when he heard his mother “speaking” to their father. At least back then she seemed to know his father wasn’t truly there. Emelyne had healed, with time. She had taken to doting on her grandson, a bright little boy who had only been three when Jonathan left for the war. Jonathan watched him grow up in Mary’s letters, the stories of his nephew and bits of neighborhood gossip buoying his spirits in his dark moments.

Then tragedy hit, one after the other. Her son-in-law, her grandson, her daughter— all gone, and her son unaccounted for. _God, what did she do to deserve this? What sort of cruel cosmic joke was being played on their family?_ Mary coming back to haunt her must have been the last straw. Guilt roiled under his skin at the idea of Mary toying with their mother like some sort of puppet, and him not realizing it because he was too much of a _coward_ to face her; avoiding the entire West End and diving headfirst into his work as usual to hide from his personal demons, too self-absorbed to even realize that Mary was alive and mad with rage. It was all his fault, all of it. 

He guided Emelyne to the couch, leaning the cane that she had not needed when he left all those years ago against the sidetable. He had missed so much. He knelt next to her, barely able to look her in the eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mother. It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he choked out, “I was coming home, I _was_ home. London, the Thames. And then it happened.”

“What happened, Johnny?” A note of concern crept into her voice, the animation of it easing some of Jonathan’s fear. Perhaps his strong mother was not entirely gone.

He shifted. “I was attacked, changed. I haven’t been the same since.” 

There was a tearful glint in Emelyne’s eye, she thought this was when Jonathan died. Which, he supposed, wasn’t entirely untrue. “The important thing is that you finally returned home. I was worried, you know. You were the last family member of which I had no news. Even Mary comes more often than you.”

Now the concern was in his voice instead. “Mother, you keep saying that. What do you mean that Mary comes to visit you? You know that’s impossible.”

She arched a brow proudly at him, looking so much like her old self that it made her words shatter him even more thoroughly. “Why should it be? Are you not standing in front of me right now? Why should it be any different with her?”

“Because Mary is dead, mother!”

“Yes, and are you not dead too? Isn’t your father dead? And my grandson, and his father? You’re all gone, but you all still visit me from time to time.” 

“But I’m not dead!” He put his too-cold hand against her cheek, futilely hoping that the contact would be grounding. But how could it be, when his palm held the chill of the grave? “I’m really here,” he insisted, “Your son. Talking to you, trying not to cry.” His tears were spent, he thought, but frustration and desolation formed a choking lump in his throat and a familiar pressure behind his eyes.

Her eyes softened in that familiar look of compassion, the same one she’d give to him as a boy when he ran too fast for his legs to carry him and fell. The same look as when his father left, and even through her own broken heart, she comforted him and helped him shoulder that devastated rage he felt. “Oh, it breaks my heart to have to tell you this, but of course you’re dead.” She laid her frail hand on top of his before he could draw it away from her cheek. The same long fingers, an artist’s hands and a surgeon’s. “My darling boy, just look at you, as pale as my Mary.” 

“I really am here, mother. And I won’t leave you this time, I swear it.” 

She gave him a fond look, like he was a child whose fanciful imagination she was choosing to indulge, but didn’t truly believe. “And I will be glad for however long you stay.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat, and nodded. He pulled away, desperate to keep his hands moving but unable to tear his eyes from his mother’s face. “Is there anything I can get for you? Some tea, maybe?” 

“Ah, it is far too late for tea. I tire quickly, these days.” She waved away the offer, then paused. “Just one thing, stop staring at me like that. As much as I love you, I cannot bear to see those empty and dead eyes.”

He dropped his gaze to the carpet. “Of course, mother,” he choked out. 

Anguish was pulling at the bottom of his lungs; he couldn’t breathe, even if he no longer truly needed to. “Forgive me, I need some air.” He hurried out of the parlor, desperate to get out away from this crushing aura of despair that enveloped the house. The sitting room door slammed with finality behind him, and he flinched at the sound before pacing towards the entryway. 

His hand grasped the bronze doorknob, and he stopped before flinging it open. Where would he even go? Should he go back to his oldest friend, the one ranting on street corners about vampires? Back to the hospital, with its bloodsoaked operating room that he could barely stand in without losing control? He didn’t belong—his former home held no place for him, and he wondered if he could find such a sanctuary anywhere on earth. 

~~~

Avery guided McCullum out into the hallway, offering his apologies but insisting that the Reids have their privacy. “Please, allow me to show you to the study, or perhaps I could prepare some food for you in the kitchen?” The last sentence pitched upwards towards the end, more of a request than an offer. Geoffrey gripped his tea as his stomach tightened, but he felt distaste at the prospect of putting more work on the man’s shoulders. 

“The study is fine,” he agreed. Avery’s posture slumped minutely, before he acquiesced. 

“Of course, Mr. McCullum.” 

He fidgeted at the formality, unused to having anyone other than Edgar and overeager recruits address him as such (one with considerably more loathing than the other). Or the occasional vampire who, between snarls, insisted on acting like a gentleman before trying to rip the throats of him or his men. Regardless, the address felt strange. “Please, call me Geoffrey.” He felt out of place in this house without Jonathan nearby, as much as he disliked to say it. At least with his target, or whatever Reid was to him, at his side, he had a purpose for being there. Chatting with the family butler, on the other hand, did not fill him with the same ease. 

Avery inclined his head. “Of course, Mr. Geoffrey.” 

Geoffrey resisted the urge to groan at the new title. He decided that was the best he could get for now, and accepted it. He followed the man upstairs, where he was led to another well-polished oaken door that swung open smoothly. Geoffrey thought about the ill-fitted frame of his current quarters, where he nearly had to smash his shoulder into its socket to bodily unjam the door in the cold. He wondered whether it would be worth sanding down the edges and oiling the hinges when it was more than likely they would be moving headquarters within a few weeks. _Probably not,_ he considered _, and the groaning and banging was a good warning when someone was coming in if he fell asleep at his desk, not an uncommon occurrence._

The study upstairs was just as finely appointed as the downstairs parlor, and likely everything else in the house. Avery gestured politely for McCullum to sit down in one of the high-backed leather chairs next to the fire. He waved off the butler’s offer to start the fire, since they’d only be there a short while, and motioned for Avery to join him instead, who obliged with creaking acquiescence. McCullum took a long sip of tea, unsure what to say to the kindly man who shouldered so much of this family’s tragedy. The man spared him by taking the initiative in the conversation. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Geoffrey, how did you come into Mr. Jonathan’s acquaintance?” 

“I provide private security,” he explained shortly. “Pembroke hired me as protection for Dr. Reid while he investigates the epidemic.” 

Avery’s lips twitched in disapproval, though he tried to hide it. “So Mr. Jonathan has been back in London for some time, then?” He asked, deceptively mild. 

_Oh shit,_ Geoffrey thought. He sounded like Carl used to, right before the man would tan his hide for doing something stupid. The mental image of the elderly butler before him doing the same to the doctor was comical. But still, the wrath of childhood authority figures was not to be underestimated. He backtracked. “I’m not sure, sir. I’ve only been working with him for a few nights. I don’t know how recently he returned.” That was a lie, he knew Jonathan had been in London for a little over a month now and had been tracking him the majority of the time. He didn’t think that would bring the old man any comfort, though. More than anything, it would raise questions about what Reid had been _up to_ while he’d been back, and clearly, the man was a shit liar to anyone he was close with. 

The butler still looked upset at the idea that Reid began working before bothering to come home, so Geoffrey added: “I think it took him awhile to make it back to the West End due to the quarantine, he told me how frustrated he was at not being able to return home.” _Shit, shit. Why was he covering for him?_ He’d have to fill Reid in, so he wasn’t caught out in the lie. 

Avery looked mollified, however. “So you two are close, then?”

McCullum normally didn’t feel the urge to put his foot in his mouth this strongly. “Well,” he spluttered, “We’ve only been working together a few nights now, I’m not sure how close two people can get. He seems well-respected at the hospital.” _Shut. Up._ He mentally kicked himself. 

Blessedly, that last statement seemed to satisfy Avery. “Oh—what am I thinking, carrying on like this? Please, drink your tea before it gets cold. I’ll go grab some biscuits.” With that, the man disappeared again, leaving Geoffrey to sip his tea as he attempted to regain his equilibrium. 

Avery returned, biscuits in hand, which he set down wordlessly in front of McCullum before sitting in an opposing armchair. The silence was oppressive, nothing like the heavy gravity of a stakeout, it was simply and overwhelmingly awkward. Geoffrey managed three more sips of tea before he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “So, what is it like here, working for the Reids?”

“It’s been, well I must admit it’s been rather somber here, since Mary’s son passed away in May. And then her as well…” He trailed off, looking pained. “Madame Reid has been handling it as well as can be expected, but it is such a sad state, especially considering how full of life this house used to be.” Avery’s eyes glimmered with memories. 

“What was it like, back then?” Geoffrey asked, intrigued. 

Avery brightened. “Oh, this was such a happy place, when Master Jonathan and his sister were young. You would—” he sighed “—you would hardly recognize the house, though little has changed in the way of decorations. It was just so happy here, it radiated from every wall. Madame Emelyne and Master Aubrey were so in love, young Master Jonathan would make a disgusted face whenever he thought they were being too over the top, but I would see him peeking around the corner when the couple would dance slowly in the hallway.” He lowered his voice. “He would never admit it, but he’s always been a romantic at heart.” 

Geoffrey chuckled lowly, relaxing in the glow of the butler’s recollections. Avery continued, fueled by the joy these stories brought him merely by their retelling. “You know, when he was young, we always believed that he would become an artist, like his mother. His interest in medicine came rather suddenly, all things considered. But he’s always had such a big heart, and has never been one to commit to something halfway, so I suppose we shouldn’t have been surprised.” 

McCullum nodded. “That he does,” he agreed unthinkingly. He stopped in alarm, realizing the ease with which he acknowledged Jonathan’s virtues. He couldn’t even pretend to dislike him anymore, not when he had seen all that Avery talked about in action. He swore silently to himself, though the butler did not notice, too caught up in visions of times past. 

Avery was still speaking. “You know, if you push aside the large dresser in the hallway across from this room, you can still see where he tried to create his own masterpiece on the walls as a child. Master Aubrey, Jonathan’s father, tried to be angry, but Madame Emelyne was so pleased with Jonathan’s ‘artistic vision’, and he could never bring himself to punish something that brought her happiness—” Avery’s reminiscing was brought to a halt by the sound of a door slamming downstairs. Geoffrey was standing in a flash, already halfway to the door before Avery could react. 

He arrived downstairs to see Jonathan staring blankly at the front door, gripping the knob but seeming to be too mired in his own internal crisis to make any forward motion. Geoffrey approached him cautiously. “Reid?” No response. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Jonathan?” 

The man’s eyes snapped to his, and Geoffrey forced himself not to flinch at the abrupt movement. There was anguish in his expression. “There’s nothing here for me, Geoffrey.” He whispered. 

“Oh, Reid.” He didn’t know what else to say. What could be said in such a situation?

“She thinks I’m dead, Geoffrey.” He gave a broken laugh. “And she’s not exactly wrong.” 

Geoffrey’s grip tightened on Jonathan’s shoulder, but he didn’t have a chance to respond before Avery appeared, making his way down the stairs as quickly as possible. That deep sadness had returned to the butler’s face as he saw Jonathan. 

The man in question straightened, trying to smooth out the furrows of sorrow that were carved between his brow. “I’m sorry, Avery, I should not have left her so suddenly. I just needed some air.”

“No, Master Jonathan, I’m sorry,” he sighed, “I understand this must be difficult for you.”

Reid crumpled. “She thinks I’m dead, Avery.” He repeated, her words circling in an awful loop in his head. 

“Oh, my boy, I’m so sorry,” he moved towards Jonathan’s hunched form, and Geoffrey eased away. “I was hoping that seeing you would be an awakening call for her, but she’s had to carry the weight of so much tragedy recently. I suppose she might think it’s too much to hope that you’re truly here.”

Geoffrey felt like he shouldn’t be here, watching this private drama play through. 

“Please, be patient with her,” Avery begged. “I’m sure, with care, she will understand that you’re alive, but it will take time. If you just stay—” his voice cracked “—if you stay with us, I'm sure everything will get better.” There was a shaky plea in the butler’s voice.

Jonathan bowed his head. “Of course, Avery, I’ll stay.”

Avery all but melted in relief. “Your room is just as you left it, I’ve kept it ready for you. I best get Madame Emelyne ready for bed. It is far later than we usually tolerate, I suppose we can’t all have the energy of youth.” He gave a weak chuckle at that, and, hesitantly, patted Jonathan’s arm one last time, as if fearing the man would disappear from beneath his fingers. “Goodnight, Mister Jonathan.”

“Goodnight, Avery,” Jonathan echoed tonelessly. The man disappeared into the parlor, and Jonathan stayed unmoving, looking for all the world like a statue carved from marble. He remained as such until the door pitched open once again. 

“Goodnight, son. It was so lovely for you to visit.” Emelyne said. 

“Goodnight, mother.” He replied dutifully. 

Avery guided the woman up the steps, offering an elbow for assistance, and the pair disappeared to the upper level. Jonathan stared at the ceiling, and his gaze was so unfocused, Geoffrey could not tell whether he was tracking their heartbeats through the plaster or merely lost in thought. 

After a few minutes, he cleared his throat. Jonathan roused from his trance, shaking his head. “I’m sorry?”

McCullum sighed, “Let’s get some air.” He gestured to the door Jonathan was currently blocking. 

Jonathan eyed it consideringly. “Actually, I have another idea.” He nodded towards the staircase. “Follow me.” 

Curiosity piqued, Geoffrey followed. Jonathan led him towards the back of the house after cresting the stairs, and opened the final door on the left. He gestured grandly. “Welcome to my childhood lair.”   
Geoffrey groaned at the reminder of that night at the Turtle. “Christ, you aren’t going to let me forget that, are you?”

Jonathan grinned sharply, though the amusement was a hollow distraction from the pain of his reunion. “Of course not.” He ushered Geoffrey towards a second door within the room. There, the cool night air kissed his skin, welcoming after the stifling sadness of the house. Geoffrey’s body radiated heat next to him. He leaned against the balcony railing. “I used to come out here to think, whenever I was stuck on a difficult problem.”

Geoffrey hummed. “It’s a nice spot. I can see why you like it.” 

They passed a few moments in silence. Jonathan’s mouth twisted. “She thinks I’m dead, Geoffrey. And I can’t honestly say she’s wrong.” 

“Well, you’re the liveliest corpse I’ve ever seen.” He said without thinking. 

That startled a laugh out of Jonathan. But he sobered quickly. “I fear that Mary may have broken her mind. I don’t know if I can fix her.” Geoffrey remembered Avery’s speech about Jonathan’s big heart, and here he was seeing the consequences of caring so deeply for someone that it felt like being stabbed when they were hurting. He had guarded his heart so carefully since the death of his family, loss was not unexpected in Priwen. While he cared for each of his guards, time and experience had desensitized him to death. He had not allowed himself to become close to anyone, knowing death was always around the corner and temporary connection was hardly worth the risk of pain. As much as Carl was a mentor to him, they weren’t the type to have heartfelt conversations. Their bonding sessions tended to revolve around strategies to hunt leeches, the benefits and drawbacks of various weapons, and methods of leadership. This was so far out of his area of expertise that it might as well rest on the other side of the English Channel.

Geoffrey tilted his head back, looking at what few stars could be seen in the polluted London sky. He exhaled gustily. “I don’t know what I can say that can make it any better. I’m sorry you’ve been dealt such a shite hand in life. Can’t say much in this world is fair, but seems like something’s got it out for you in particular.” Reid said nothing next to him, just stared with his peculiarly intense gaze. McCullum had grown used to it over time, but it was unsettling at first, the way that Reid’s eyes seem to burn directly down to his core. “I can’t even muster up the ability to _pretend_ to hate you anymore. Thanks for that, by the way, makes my job so much easier.” he said, side-eyeing the man.

Jonathan gave a weak chuckle. “Well, if it saves me the threat of a bullet in the head every time I go out to treat a patient, I can’t say I regret that too much.” 

They lapsed back into silence, Reid rolling the bitter taste of the reunion across his tongue and Geoffrey standing next to him. There wasn’t anything else to say, really. A quiet companionship had built between them, and any spoken comforts would have cheapened the moment. So, Geoffrey let the evening air wash over him while the Ekon beside him processed everything the night had held.

No words were needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the idea of Emelyne hating the Eiffel Tower from the linked article; I like to imagine Emelyne knew some of these artists, perhaps ran in the same social circles as them for a time, before moving to England with her husband. I also like to imagine that she went to some wild parties with said artists, but that’s neither here nor there  
> https://www.toureiffel.paris/en/news/130-years/artists-who-protested-eiffel-tower
> 
> On a sidenote, I might be slow to post the next chapter, depending on how the next month shakes out. I've got a Christmas fic in the works and am trying to finish my other (much shorter) multichapter fic, Sparring Partners, before the end of the year. So whatever happens. there will definitely be new content somewhere :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re expecting a plot, I apologize. If you are craving some domestic McReid with a side helping of tenderness and confusion over feelings, however, you’re in luck

After standing on the balcony for some indeterminate amount of time, a shiver wracked Geoffrey’s frame. It was early December in London, and the chill of the Thames seeped into the bones of London’s inhabitants. _Well_ , he thought wryly _, at least most of them_. 

One of those unaffected was staring at him in open concern. “Good Lord, McCullum,” he swore, “You’ll catch your death out here. Let’s get inside.” Jonathan was shaking his head as he hustled the hunter into the warm house. “I’m sure Avery still keeps the tea in the same place. I’ll make you some to warm up.” 

Irritation competed with amusement at the experience of being mother-henned by a vampire. “Calm down, Reid, I’m not your bleeding gran. I can handle a little chill.” He grumbled. 

Jonathan looked at him sharply. “A little chill can quickly turn into pneumonia if you aren’t careful. And I’m _sure_ that you aren’t getting the amount of sleep you need.” Geoffrey couldn’t argue with that (though he wanted to). With an eruption of feral ghouls on the streets, his nights were spent hunting and his days were spent organizing recruits and supplies. He slept for as long as it took to keep his mind and body sharp enough to survive, and could not afford even that some days. He allowed Jonathan to continue pushing him towards the kitchen.

He drew the line, however, at Jonathan shoving him bodily into one of the generously-stuffed armchairs in the parlor and disappearing off into a somewhat hidden door at the side of the room. Geoffrey followed him in instead, realizing quickly that the door led to the kitchen. Avery, who seemed to have special powers of precognizance, had left the kettle on the stovetop, full of water that just needed a bit of heat to bring it back to boiling. Geoffrey perched on the countertop, purposefully ignoring the nearby stool. 

Jonathan nodded towards one of the overhead cabinets. “Tea’s in there, if you’d like to choose.” 

“I’m more of a coffee person, to be honest.” He mumbled, but headed towards the cabinet anyway. There, labeled in careful scrawls, was a variety of teas. Geoffrey grabbed the sharpest looking black tea he could find, and slid it towards Jonathan. 

The doctor was squinting at the kettle with far more scrutiny than it deserved. When he saw the tea Geoffrey had chosen, the lines around his eyes softened and reshaped with his smile. “This was my favorite when I was in medical school, it certainly is one that wakes you up.” He turned to grab two cups from a separate cabinet, and Geoffrey returned to his perch. “And hunter,” Jonathan said, back still turned, “You certainly won’t earn my wrath by sitting there, but you might earn Avery’s, I’m fairly sure he has a psychic communion with the house itself.” 

Geoffrey got off the counter. 

**~~~**

When the tea had steeped, they brought their drinks back to the parlor and sat in front of the fireplace once again. The vampire grabbed some sliced ham and bread too, insisting that they had been here for hours and he _knew_ McCullum hadn’t eaten more than a few biscuits. Geoffrey had raised a brow when Jonathan poured himself a cup, but the man shrugged and sheepishly explained that he “liked the smell”. McCullum shook his head. “What is the world coming to?” He muttered.

He, the leader of the Guard of Priwen, the foremost vampire hunting organisation in the British Isles, was drinking tea in a vampire’s home lair, while said vampire smelled the tea out of...nostalgia? Wistfulness? The same vampire had also most definitely cried tonight, and he had comforted him while they stood out on the balcony like old friends. And Geoffrey hadn’t tried to kill him, not even once. _Christ_. He needed to get his head on straight. The tea was good though. 

He picked up the sandwich. 

Jonathan was eyeing him carefully over the rim of his teacup. The posh fucker looked far too natural with that expression, fingers (that, he reminded himself, could turn into claws at will) laced almost delicately around the handle of the china. His eyes reflected the firelight as he studied him. Geoffrey felt like he was laid out on a surgical table under that piercing gaze, and his skin itched with the sensation. 

“It’s kind of awkward to be watched while I eat,” he said.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow, the fire casting odd shadows against the hollows of his cheeks and the pits of his eyes, made all the more prominent by his high cheekbones. _He had never considered a man’s facial structure like this before_ , Geoffrey realized with a shot of heat running through his cheeks. 

“I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about that. Unless you’d like me to turn around.”

Geoffrey snorted lightly. “That would make things even more awkward.’ The silence drew itself out, though the quiet itself wasn’t uncomfortable, just Jonathan’s implacable gaze as the sandwich drooped, half-forgotten, in his hand. His skin still felt like there were pins and needles right underneath. “Why don’t you talk about something.”

“About what?” 

“I don’t know. Anything.” 

Jonathan’s eyes were drawn back to the picture on the mantle. “How about France?” Geoffrey took a bite of his sandwich as Jonathan’s intense gaze filmed over with memories.

“Never been to France,” Geoffrey hummed, “Tell me about it.” 

So Jonathan did, with the steady rumble of his voice painting pictures of warm summer days in idyllic vineyards, of getting lost amongst the tall vines until his father picked him up, towering over the plants that seemed like giants to a six year old Jonathan. He talked about the Louvre, and how his mother would spend hours there when they visited Paris, weaving stories about the pieces on display and the artists behind them. The stories segued into his first forays into haematology— the eagerness of discovery and the desperation to prove himself that animated him. The sandwich was little more than crumbs by this point, the teacup drained to its end and Jonathan’s matching mug had long gone cold. 

Between the warm fire, a full stomach, and an obscenely comfortable chair, Geoffrey’s eyes began to droop, falling and rising as he fought the rising tide of exhaustion. He was so used to running on the adrenaline that kept him alive and on guard, prowling the streets of London with one patrol or another. But here he was, feeling safer than he had any right to in a leech’s presence, breaths steady and getting slower. When Jonathan’s rumbling narration, softened by nostalgia, was factored in, Geoffrey didn’t stand a chance. He fell asleep.

**~~~**

Jonathan was still talking when he realized McCullum’s pulse had slowed considerably and his breathing had evened out. The hunter was angled into the armchair in such a way that had to be painful for his spine, his head tilted back in such a way that exposed his carotid artery. Jonathan felt a strange warmth in his chest at the display— he knew it was unintentional, but he couldn’t help but feel honored at the trust implicit in the action. 

He rose from his chair, wanting some time to trace the halls of his childhood alone. _Geoffrey needed rest, anyway_ , he thought with resolve. He soundlessly made his way up the stairs, hand running lightly over the polished banister. The lamps that Avery had left on in case of his mother’s nighttime wanderings were casting warm light, though the shadows threatened to press in on every side. Jonathan didn’t need them to see. He could sense Avery and his mother’s heartbeats, made sluggish by sleep, through the walls, and the sound was comforting in a way he didn’t expect— a solid reminder that those he cherished were safe and nearby, yet provided by the same abilities that had taken his sister from him.

His feet found their way to his old room, unchanged despite the fact that he was a completely different creature. He crocked a crooked smile at the skeleton in the corner, remembering fevered nights in his early years of medical school— and the way it had given Clarence a near heart-attack. Clarence had barged into Jonathan’s room, not noticing the medical student’s new “decoration”, intent on dragging his friend out to dance with Venus (who he was courting with the eagerness of a lovesick puppy at the time) and a friend of hers. Clarence had been tugging him away from his desk and lost his grip, flailing and falling backwards into a bony embrace. 

Avery had come to investigate the screams, and found both men on the floor—Jonathan howling with laughter, tears streaming from his eyes, and Clarence the same shade as the pile of bones around him, but starting to wheeze with shaky laughter himself. (It provided an excellent study opportunity later, when Jonathan had to piece the skeleton back together).

His bed was made neatly, tightly tucked at the corners in Avery’s trademark fashion. His fingers ran across the leaves of the well-tended plant on his bedside table. It was beautiful and healthy, and had him thinking about the sad abandoned fern in his office at Pembroke; he’d have to ask Avery for advice on nursing it back to health. So many lives were slipping through his fingers, it seemed, and he would save that plant out of sheer stubbornness if nothing else. 

A gleam on the desk caught his eye. He drew closer, and realized it was a key. A very familiar one, at that. The key to his father’s study. His fingers closed around the cool metal. Avery must have put it there, but why?

 _Only one way to find out_ , he thought. The lock’s opening _click_ rang like a gunshot in the empty hall. Jonathan’s shoulders hunched, feeling like he was doing something illicit even with the key and the fact that the locked door usually demanded privacy for a man who hadn’t set foot in this house in ten years. 

There was a letter on the rich mahogany desk. Jonathan debated turning on the light— he didn’t need it, after all, not after the changes he’d undergone—but the urge to see the room in the exact lighting of his youth won out. In the days that he trailed eagerly after his father, he would sit in a chair by the fireplace and read while the man balanced accounts and wrote letters. He had a habit of speaking aloud as he worked, and Jonathan would be torn between his interest in whatever book had grabbed his attention and the proposed topic of conversation. Depending on the subject, sometimes neither of them accomplished their tasks. 

Rough parchment rubbed the pads of his fingers, his father’s handwriting spiderwebbing across the page. 

_4th April, 1908._ The day before Aubrey Reid left for good.

_My dear and beloved John,_

_When you receive this letter, you will be thirty five and I’ll be long gone. I feel a little silly writing a letter that you won’t read for a few years._

He could hear his father’s voice in the words—the knot that had loosened in his throat after speaking with McCullum returned in full force.

_I struggled for a long time about how best to write you this; until I remembered the puzzle and riddles I invented for you when you were a boy. Oh, how you loved to solve those enigmas. Well, I found it would be a good idea to propose to you one final game. It will probably be less rewarding. No candies or exotic treasures for you if you decipher this game, this time. But a greater treasure perhaps: the truth. This is my only attempt for you to explain why I chose to leave my family without an explanation. If you want to know why, simply play my little game. It’s really up to you, my son. Rest assured that I love you. I promise my family was and still is everything to me. I remember the first time I held you and your sister in my arms. My treasures. My jewels. To see you grow up, play and laugh filled my heart with joy every time I went back to our home. I could have killed to protect you. My son. My daughter. My wife. But fate found me in the end, and I had to make a tough decision. The worst was to disappear without a word. I decided to do it anyway, and soon I’ll be gone for good. I don’t ask for forgiveness, but for understanding. If you want to know more, all you have to do is remember how happy we were back in those days. If you want to find the next message, think green grass and tall trees on sunny Sundays._

_From your affectionate father,_

_Aubrey Reid_

Emotions warred within him. The urge to break down fought the desire to throw the nearest vase, sending it shattering into a thousand shards. A violent storm was brewing in his soul. 

The hand that was holding Aubrey’s note fisted at his side. _After all this time,_ a voice inside him snarled, _why should he be strung along by the man who caused his family so much heartache? Why should he give him the satisfaction of following this stupid game, the game that he had evidently put so much thought into despite the fact that he couldn’t be bothered to say goodbye to his wife and children?_ A large part of him was tempted to crumple up the letter on the spot, or slash through it with his claws, and leave it to burn in the absentee’s fireplace as a contemptuous farewell. 

But…

His thumb brushed over those words again. _My dear and beloved John_. No one else called him that—not even his mother. The tempest lost its momentum at the address. 

_Fate found me in the end, and I had to make a tough decision._ A horrific sort of hope seized him. Could his father have been turned— like him? Had he disappeared to protect them from himself? 

There would be an awful irony if that was the truth at the end— that his father had exiled himself only for the next male Reid to destroy their family in his hunger. 

_If you want to know why, simply play my little game._

Curiosity had always been his fatal flaw. He had to know, if only to gain closure.

The last tendrils of night were slipping away; he should wake Geoffrey. 

**~~~**

McCullum was woken by someone shaking his shoulder and speaking lowly into his ear. Cool air whispered across his neck with each word, and he registered the inhuman coolness of the breath and the ink dark presence of _leech!_ in the same moment. His reflexes, honed to a fine point from many years of fighting enemies with supernatural speed, reacted before his mind could fully wake up. The weight of his coat was gone, and with it the gun inside, but he still had the knife in his boot and the warm silver of the crucifix on its chain resting on his chest (if it came to that). He pulled out the knife, fairly launching himself out of the chair and into the person towering over him. His forehead met the nose of the leech with a satisfying crack and bore the figure (who really should have been putting up more resistance) down to the ground. Geoffrey was straddling him, one hand planted on a shoulder and his other with the knife raised, when his mind finally caught up. Reid was staring at him, looking remarkably unfazed despite the bloodied nose that was more crooked than usual and the hunter pinning him to the floor, panting on top of him. 

“Sleep well, hunter?” 

Geoffrey groaned, and pushed off of him. Reid followed him up, straightening his waistcoat. He pinched the bridge of his nose; already the cartilage was straightening, fixing itself so the only hint of the abuse it went through was the blood crusted around it. McCullum wasn’t going to apologize. 

Reid fixed him with an insufferably cocky smile. “It was lucky that I woke you, and didn’t leave you for Avery to find. I doubt he’d handle the same reception very well.” Of course the fucker was worried about that, instead of reasonable things like almost getting _stabbed_. 

Apparently, Geoffrey said that thought out loud, because Reid fixed him with a _look_ and said, “I would have stopped you if it got that far.”

The hunter goggled at him. “I was about to kill you!”

“But you hadn’t _yet._ ”

“You’re impossible.” He wasn’t sure which was worse: the fact that he had fallen asleep in a vampire’s company, or the tension headache he was already developing from said vampire’s lack of self-preservation instincts. 

“Is that better or worse than being called arrogant?” He said, arrogantly. Geoffrey wondered if he should smash his nose again. 

“To be honest,” Reid admitted, “I didn’t want to wake you; you need the rest. But it’s almost sunrise and I wanted to talk to you before I was...indisposed.” McCullum supposed that was a tactful way to refer to the way vampires began to drowse at the first hint of the sun over the horizon. 

“About the exhaustion, as the sun rises, can you fight it?” Geoffrey asked curiously. This sort of information would be useful to the Guard, yes, but that isn’t what prompted him to ask it.

Jonathan lit up, a spark of excitement animating him. “To an extent, though I’ve noticed that I quickly become more irritable, prone to losing my focus, along with all the other effects of human exhaustion, though they are intensified.” He smirked. “Are you planning to off me in my sleep? All I ask is that you don’t scare my mother if you do so.”

“Don’t joke about that,” he snapped. And then, more quietly, “No, Reid, I’m a man of my word. You’re safe until our deal is up.” 

Jonathan Reid raised his hands in surrender. “I know you are, I’m sorry. That was...in poor taste, perhaps.”

“Right, then.” There was a strange pulling in his chest, like someone was tying knots between his lungs. He shrugged on his coat. “You coming?” 

Jonathan cast an eye at the softening grey of dawn before shaking his head. “I promised I would stay today, and I doubt I could make it back to Pembroke in time regardless. Would you like to meet here again, this evening?”

“Right, of course,” he shook his head, clearing the last of the sleep from his mind. He didn’t know why he asked if Reid was leaving; he should have been raring to escape the vampire’s presence. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, or later today, practically speaking.” 

Jonathan smiled, some of the barbs around his heart loosening despite the pain the past few hours had held. “I’m sure my mother will be glad for the company. Would you stay with her, while I go to Ascalon?”

“Not the whole time,” he hedged, “I’ve still got work to do.” At the vampire’s pleading expression, he sighed, “Fine, I will at least stay for a little while.” Jonathan’s face shifted to one of gratitude. Geoffrey scoffed. “Don’t give me that look, I don’t want any thank-you’s from a vampire.”

Jonathan pursed his lips, making a show of bringing his face back to one of neutrality, but a smile still tugged at the corners. It made Geoffrey uncomfortable, that softness, so he kept talking. “Will you be missed from the hospital?”

“Dr. Swansea has been rather lenient, really. For the duration of the epidemic, I am allowed to exclusively perform rounds about the city and my own private research, only helping in the hospital if he explicitly requires my assistance. I know it’s due to my unique circumstances, but the favoritism,” his mouth twisted, “it doesn't feel right.”

“Lenient is one word for it,” Geoffrey snorted, “He’d let you eat half the staff if it meant retaining his crush.”

His curiosity was piqued. “What is your animosity towards Edgar anyway? It’s quite mutual, I’m aware.”

Geoffrey snorted. “First off, he works for the Brotherhood, but at least _some_ of the Brotherhood has shred of sense. I’m pretty sure Swansea spends his evenings in his office fantasizing about someone like you draining the life from him. Mostly he just gives me the creeps. I trust my instincts, and they’re telling me that something’s off with him.” 

_And what do your instincts say about me?_ Jonathan wanted to ask, but he wasn’t sure he was prepared for the answer, whatever it would be. 

“Why do you like him, after all?” Geoffrey was back on the offensive. 

Jonathan paused consideringly. “He was the first person to offer me any sort of explanation for what happened to me; he offered me shelter and a place to stay. I suppose I feel indebted to him, and he _is_ a good administrator for the hospital, even if his enthusiasm in vampiric matters can be, well, somewhat overwhelming.” 

_Overwhelming_. Geoffrey shook his head. “As long as you’re not expecting me to have tea parties with him, I think we’ll be fine. Still don’t trust him though.” _I shouldn’t trust you, either._ “G’night, Reid.”

“Goodnight, Geoffrey.” There was a fond smile playing at the vampire’s lips as they stood in the open doorway. The knots between his lungs were back. He grunted in response, and left.

Geoffrey strolled out into the chill night air, chin buried in his scarf. He wondered why Reid’s last smile made his chest feel like that. _Christ,_ he thought, _maybe I need sleep more than I thought._ He wondered if he’d be able to track down a few Skals scurrying away from the rising sun on his way back; maybe that would get his head on straight. 

Back in his room, a vampire was lulled to sleep by that same sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays to those who celebrate! There's a Christmas fic I've been working on, so be sure to keep your eyes peeled for that :D
> 
> Update 2/2: None of my works are abandoned! However seasonal depression is a bastard that makes it hard to write, so encouragement is welcome. Will be back from the pit of numbness at some point hopefully


End file.
